Ground beef
Ricotta cheese
Broad flat noodles
Tomato sauce
Oregano
You would think “lasagna!” would be your first, swift conclusion. Sometimes, however, the thought process takes its time, even for an innovative cook with a full pantry—and sometimes it takes a flight attendant to push you over the edge.
So it wasn’t until I read the memoirs of a certain actress that the thought dawned. This actress had created her own musical comedy revue, based on her experiences in her day job as a flight attendant. I slammed the book shut, and with a new gleam in my eye, started thinking.
It’s a fascinating, crazy world, the world of a singer. People always ask questions about what it’s like, and I realize again that we have a vast supply of untapped comedic—and dramatic—material in our everyday experiences. Could I possibly create a seriocomic show about what it’s like to be an opera singer, I asked myself, a show that would both entertain and inform, that was at once as real and moving as the art we live for and as behind-the-scenes funny as Anna Russell?
I assessed the pantry shelves of my experience: Great technique, good writer, knowledge of the repertoire, a love for teaching, a crackerjack rapport with an audience—and for some reason that I cannot fathom, people seem to think I’m hilariously funny. I’ve had classrooms in stitches, teaching everything from sacramental theology to English as a Second Language. “By George,” I said, whacking my knee with such force that a startled, indignant cat went flying across the room, “I’m gonna write my own show!”
Thus my baby was born. It began life as a sketch, How to Succeed in Opera Without Really Trying, for its Pacific Northwest debut, and has since metamorphosed into a full-hour show—complete with audience participation and hats—titled The Secret Life of Opera Singers; an Operatic Comedy.
Creation was a daunting task, but at least the bulk of the work was already done for me. I chuckled as I read about the aforementioned flight-attendant author composing a melody and lyrics for The Safety Demo Shuffle, and realized that in a show about opera I didn’t have to write my own music. I did, however, have to write the dialogue and select the music to include. I found a wonderful collaborator in Dr. Charles Enlow, a Seattle-based collaborative pianist, whose enthusiasm and good suggestions helped me over any number of rough spots, from start to finish.
I found it helped, in writing the dialogue, to ask myself, “What story do I want to tell, and how can I most effectively tell it?” I certainly had plenty of stories. What singers really learn in music school, for example (the audience-participation “Caro mio ben” tutorial has proved a hit thus far); or the role imitating barnyard animals plays in the development of vocal technique; or the inherent dangers of coloratura—and on and on.
I found myself practicing my party stories in the mirror, analyzing my facial expressions and rating them on a humorousness scale of 1 to 10. My infinitely patient husband learned more about my music-school days than he ever wanted to know. (“Which anecdote do you think is funnier and why?”) And let’s not forget the day I practiced my coloratura routine for the toughest customer I could think of: my brother Oliver, 10 years my junior and, even worse, my voice student. (“That isn’t coming across, Imelda. You’ll have to try it again.”)
Even more than with the dialogue and the routines, I wanted to tell a story with the music itself. I put the aria that made me fall in love with opera, when I was 5, at the beginning of the show. I’ve been singing Gilbert and Sullivan patter since I was 6 (ask my mom). The Gilbert and Sullivan patter went in second—and so on. The grand finale was both a bit of my future and an ulterior motive. I was singing Angelina in La Cenerentola in New York City the following year, and wanted to make sure that I could sing “Non più mesta” without choking like a newt. I figured that if I could sing the aria after 50 minutes of alternating between spoken dialogue and singing everything from G&S to Poulenc, I could certainly sing it after two hours of Rossini. At this writing, I’m in rehearsals for La cenerentola—and it’s going swimmingly. So, you see, when you have a difficult aria to learn, you should always write a comedy show.
I performed the show at several venues during its run in the Pacific Northwest, some better suited than others. I urge anyone mounting a production to be open to the unexpected, and open to performing at the drop of a hat—you simply never know who will take an interest in your work. I think one of my favorite moments in the show’s run was my visit to my wonderful publicity photographer, Tara Gimmer, who introduced me to the hairdresser and said, “sing us a song!” I grinned, grabbed a water bottle, and used it as a goblet for an impromptu, a capella Brindisi—which led to an invitation to perform for a gallery open house. Let me tell you, nothing quite compares to performing opera for Hip Young Things in an art gallery. By the time my slot rolled around, the majority of the HYTs were in the last stages of inebriation. I’m not sure how much of the show they remembered, but they sure enjoyed it at the time!
A week before the posters went to press, my pianist Charles had an emergency family obligation come up on opening weekend. I was tired, and was sure no venues would be available for a rescheduled weekend. I wanted to shorten the run, but my husband, an engineer with a poetic soul, gave me no rest, until I said in exasperation, “Fine! Fine! I’ll make five phone calls, and then I am going to give up!” Of course, on my second phone call, I got sponsorship for a concert from Sherman Clay Pianos, the oldest piano store on the West Coast. The store gave us a magnificent venue among its collection of Steinways. Another lesson well learned!
And so, volunteers were recruited, tickets were sold, posters were posted, press releases were released, and e-mails were emailed.
I have to apply for a copyright, and get a cash box, and what about parking, and I wasn’t listed on the venue’s website (as I had been assured I would)—and I burst into tears. What had I been thinking?
All things must come to an end, however, even the week before your show opens.
“Places!”
I took a deep breath.
“Libiamo, libiamo, ne lieti calici che la bellezza infiora …”
From music professors to truck drivers, the audience laughed, and laughed, and laughed—and they cried—in all the right places. Best of all, many who were new to opera said they’d learned a lot about the art form that evening, and asked what was playing down at Seattle Opera these days.
Opera is as exciting as rap music, as cutting-edge as any contemporary art form. Opera resonates with our modern culture and with modern people because it’s real, and in my opinion, fresh presentational choices serve the art form well.
As I bring the show to the East Coast this year, it’s with my favorite reaction to the show’s initial run constantly in my mind. I had just given a me-in-a-Walkyrie-hat flyer to one of my younger brother’s rocker friends. He looked at it, burst into enthusiastic laughter, and roared, “dude, that’s metal!”
