Timothy Noble’s career is an excellent choice for young singers to study. Notice how often his music theory and excellent sight-reading skills came into play to create “lucky breaks” for him. This is a real musician whose early training and beautiful voice opened doors for him everywhere he went.
“Timothy Noble’s edgy urgent baritone and superb French diction animated the High Priest of Dagon magisterially.” —the San Francisco Chronicle, writing about Timothy Noble’s last appearances at his musical home, the San Francisco Opera.
It doesn’t seem like that long ago that I was sitting in the Metropolitan Opera house, watching Noble portray Michele, the tortured owner of a French barge in Puccini’s Il Tabarro. I cannot say I did anything so simple as hear him sing—his performance was a total, dramatic entity. Here was a man who was valiantly trying to hold together the crumbling pieces of his life—a man who ultimately loses the woman he loves to another man.
I recently listened to that performance again, and I was struck by the way Noble brought the drama to life through his voice. The hair stood up on the back of my neck during the last few minutes of the opera, where Michele invites his faithless wife to come under his cloak to reveal the lifeless body of her lover. The intensity was painful, and quite Shakespearean in its despair.
Buoyed by the memory of that performance—and by a glowing report from Martina Arroyo, who described her colleague and fellow teacher at Indiana University as “a real man, a big bear of a guy”—I set out to have a chat with Timothy Noble. We met in the lobby of his hotel, between rehearsals for a concert with the Orlando Philharmonic.
Timothy is indeed a big bear of a guy, with a mane of gray hair, and a dangling feather earring that paid homage to his Native American background. We traced his early years, his beginnings in opera, his ideas on singers, technique, and family life, which after many upheavals, is now on the “good road.”
What was your early training?
I grew up in Peru, Indiana, which is north of Indianapolis. My mother studied to be a concert pianist, but gave it up to marry and raise a family. Father was a band director and tuba player in the Indianapolis Symphony, and played under Fabien Sevitzky (1937-1955) in the early 1940s. He recorded Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 for RCA Red Seal, with Rachmaninoff playing the piano.
Dad died when he was 50. 2,000-3,000 people, in a town of 12,000, attended his funeral. This man touched many lives. He drove me to be the best I could possibly be.
Growing up, I enjoyed all types of sports—and I loved music. One day, Dad sat me down and told me [that I could either] play sports, or major in band or choir. Well, I chose music.
What were the early years like?
I was percussion major at Butler University [Indiana]. In 1964, I decided to audition for the U.S. Army Band and Chorus, and was accepted to both. Father and I did not see eye-to-eye on my career choice, so he called Don Neuen (head of the Angeles Choral, UCLA as well as choral director at the Crystal Cathedral in Los Angeles. Neuen was a protégé of Robert Shaw, and head of the Vocal Department at the Eastman School of Music for 12 years.) So, to get me to stay in school, Neuen accepted me into Ball State University. He invited me to join The University Singers (Doug Perry and Jacque Trussel were also in the group).
In 1965, Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians performed in the college auditorium. We were forced to attend two concerts a year, so I attended the show. I thought: “This is for me.”
I went back stage to Fred Waring and said that I wanted to be in his group.
“Can you sing?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” I answered.
“Can you sight read?”
“Anything you put in front of me,” I said.
He had me sight read a four-part male chorus for “This Is My Country.” I was student choral director for the male chorus at Ball State, and it turned out that we had performed this arrangement, so I knew it stone cold. I was offered a position and sang with Fred for seven and a half years. That’s a lot of “Battle Hymns of the Republic” and a lot of miles on a bus.
I performed in nightclubs. I sang in the Catskills, at Grossingers, the famous summer resort in Liberty, N.Y. While there, I met George Abbott, and he took me to Broadway in a musical called The Selling of the President. Our cast included Barb Barrie and Pat Hingle. It flopped. The Selling of the President ran for six previews and five performances, from March 16 to March 25, 1972.
I auditioned for Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music, but didn’t look like a Swedish student. I was disillusioned with the whole thing.
My father died in September 1972. After his death, I decided to go back to Grossingers. My sets were about 45 minutes long—but one night, after two to three songs, I walked off the stage. The band director came to me and wanted to know what was wrong; I didn’t realize I had more to sing. I knew then I had to chill out for a bit. So I went back home to Indiana.
What made you turn around and start again?
I went home to Indiana, and in 1973, I got a call from the Fred Waring Band to go back on the road, but by the summer of 1977 it was time to move on.
In that same summer at a Fred Waring workshop, I met Stephen Zegree (who would later go on to become the director of the Gold Company Ensemble and a renowned professor of piano and jazz at Western Michigan University) who was going to Indiana University for his master’s degree. He felt I should go to Indiana University and study. (Study what? Voice! I am making a living at singing, why should I study voice?)
Well my family was in Indiana, so why not.
What happened at Indiana University?
Fred had called Charles Webb, who was the dean at IU, and asked him to take care of me. I auditioned for Margaret Harshaw (the great Wagnerian singer for 22 seasons at the Metropolitan Opera, and a celebrated faculty member of Indiana University until her death in 1997). I sang “Danny Boy” in the key of F with a high A at the end.
Harshaw thought I sounded like Joe Feeney, the Irish tenor from the Lawrence Welk show, and felt I probably would never be an opera singer.
“With all due respect,” I said, “I really don’t care about opera, and I don’t sound like Joe Feeney—and you can take your voice lessons and stuff it.”
I was 32, and been around the block a few times, so I was not going to listen to that. However, we did make up later.
I was accepted anyway, and was given my first operatic role: the Speaker in The Magic Flute. I actually saw my first opera at IU, which was Tosca.
I studied with Walter Cassell, which was not successful. I then studied with the great Eileen Farrell. She said, “Well honey, you are singing thru your nose.” She was incredible and became a mother to me. At that time, I was also given an associate instructorship in a jazz vocal class, which was right up my alley.
We worked together a couple of years. In fact, we considered Heldentenor for a while, but when I thought about how many Saturday nights I liked to have fun, I said no way.
When Farrell left, her replacement was the great bass Nicola Rossi-Lemeni. Nicola was a true Renaissance man—he spoke six or seven languages, was published in three or four languages—a great singer and a real mensch. He became my father.
Nicola was the one who convinced me that I should sing Verdi. We butted heads a lot. He kept saying: “You must cover.” I did not want to. I felt it shut the voice down. Eventually I figured out what he wanted.
I learned the Italian language because he forced me to speak it in the studio. He was a wonderful actor, also. He performed one last “Boris” at IU—you could not take your eyes off of him. He convinced me to try to make a go of it.
How did your opera career come about then?
At IU, I performed many operas with the Opera Theater, including the world premiere of The Cry of Clytaemnestra, by the American composer John Eaton. It is microtonal and very difficult.
In 1991, San Francisco Opera called to say they were planning to perform this work during their spring season and asked me to sing in these performances. There I met the conductor Richard Bradshaw. One day he asked if I knew the Verdi Requiem. I said no.
“Can you sight read it?”
“Yes!”
So, after a matinee of “Clytaemnestra,” I went and sight read an evening performance of the Verdi Requiem. It probably wasn’t very good, but I got through it.
Brian Dickie, who was general administrator of the Glyndebourne Festival, was in the audience, so it turned out to be a huge night for me.
Kurt Herbert Adler, conductor and general director of the San Francisco Opera, cast me in a small role in the American premiere of the Jean-Pierre Ponelle production of Aribert Reimann’s opera, Lear. Adler then invited me to sing small roles the next season. I sang the sergeant in Manon, a sergeant in Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, the King in Le Cid and Morales in the Jean-Pierre Ponelle production of Carmen, with Plácido Domingo and Teresa Berganza.
One night, I was sick as a dog with the flu. Right before the curtain went up for Carmen, Plácido Domingo came over and said, “Don’t worry. You sing very well,” and wished me luck. I never forgot that.
Singing with Kurt Adler was incredible. He had a beat like an eggbeater and I could not follow him. One night he walked over to me before Carmen and said (in a wonderful accent that sounded like Dracula): “Well, Mr. More or Less” (that’s what he called me), “what tempo would you like me to take tonight?” I said, “With all due respect, Maestro, if you find one, I’ll take it.” He replied, “Funny boy, funny boy.” We never got it right.
Would you call San Francisco your operatic home?
Yes. I sang for 20 seasons in San Francisco. My final season I sang Samson et Dalila, with Olga Borodina and Sergei Larin. I looked like Emperor Ming from the old Flash Gordon movies. I loved it.
At the opening night party, the whole cast was there, and they introduced everyone—except for me. “Well,” I thought, “they just forgot. No big deal.” At the end they said, “Last but not least…” and they presented me with a plaque, signed by the whole company, which held a picture of me as the Duke of Albany (which was my first role in the Ponelle Lear). It is very moving to be recognized by your peers. It’s like receiving the Oscar.
How did you reach the Metropolitan Opera?
Brian Dickie’s office called, asking me if I wanted to sing in France.
“Sure I would.” And they asked if I knew Luisa Miller.
“I never met her,” I said.
“No, the opera Luisa Miller,” was their answer. Well, I never even heard of it, but sure, why not?
I sang at the Glyndebourne Festival and then auditioned for James Levine. I debuted at the Met in 1988 as Shaklovity in Khovanshchina.
My opera career started in 1981, and by 1988, I was singing at the Metropolitan Opera.
How do you choose and prepare a role?
When I was getting started, the roles chose me. If you got a call and it was work, you took it—then you learned what works and what doesn’t work.
I performed and premiered a lot of new music because composers knew of my musicianship. I premiered Philip Glass’ The Voyage at the Metropolitan Opera, in the role of Christopher Columbus, with the great Tatiana Troyanos as Isabella. It was a good experience, as I had the opportunity to be part of the creative process with the composer. I offered ideas, and he made musical changes that fit me like a glove.
Early in my career, I would perform one role and learn another at the same time. Later, I would read and study the text, translate it, and write it out. For me, when I write things out I remember them. As for the music, I have a photographic memory. I can look at a page of music and remember it. I memorizedThe Barber of Seville in five days. I memorized The Flying Dutchman in two days. This is not recommended!
What are your favorite roles to sing?
I love Iago, Scarpia and Falstaff. These are incredible baritone roles and have been very kind to me over the years.
One of the great moments of my career was in Amsterdam doing Otello. The director had me walk right down to the apron of the stage for the Credo. During that rehearsal period, I was in a bicycle accident where I hurt my knee, and I had to walk with a cane. Iago was all dressed in red and appeared a bit sympathetic because he needed the help of the cane to walk, yet he was pure evil when he showed his true colors in the Credo.
The critic from The London Financial Times thought the cane was a great idea from the director, but the truth was I could not walk with out it.
I also love Shakespeare. If you love Verdi, you must love Shakespeare.
What do you do during a performance that keeps you going?
Characterization. Many times, I like to do my own makeup, or at least put the finishing touches on it, because then I become that character. When I do Falstaff or Scarpia, I am not Timothy Noble any more. I like my voice to come from that character. The music dictates the character.
Do you use any specific method book of exercises while training, and can you describe perfect singing?
My bible is Lili Lehmann’s book on vocal technique. The Bel Canto technique is not about technology—it is about feel and sensation.
Perfect singing is when you get roses thrown at you on stage and get hired back for a lot more money. That is perfect singing.
Speaking of Bel Canto technique, one of our readers asks about messa di voce [the swelling effect from piano to forte or forte to piano]. How do you achieve this on a high note?
I think it is a positional thing in the voice. Try this on the word “gnocchi” and sing behind the “gn.” That’s a great vocal position for the messa di voce. So I sing it around E-flat, E, F, F-sharp and G. If you get into that position, you can start piano and go straight into forte, adding chest voice as you crescendo. If the position of the voice is totally vertical (or tall), this is difficult to achieve.
Can you explain your idea of breath support? Some suggest that the movement of the air activates the support. Others suggest that air alone is not enough support, that an inner resistance must support the air.
I would say that the air must be supported by an inner resistance. There are three or four “methods” that are readily available. I also use the abdominal tuck from time to time, especially to sing high and soft. [Noble demonstrates by cupping his hands at the top of his diaphragm and gently pushing up].
I tell my students not to get rigid. Tension anywhere—face, tongue, jaw, chest—goes to the voice. Be aware that you are using the diaphragm area, and you will not fail. I like to take a breath and then release a tiny bit of air and go for high, soft onsets. That is what has saved my voice for all these years.
Do you have a specific vocal regimen that you do before a performance?
I try not to leave my voice in the dressing room: I only warm-up for about five or ten minutes. I try to have a normal day, to not stress about things, be active, and get the body and blood moving.
I love matinees, because my voice is fresher during the day than it is at night.
How do you pace yourself in performance?
You don’t, you just go. If you are sick, or feeling less than a hundred percent, you find places to rest. Take Rigoletto: I look forward to the quartet, because I get to sing a bass part. There I can re-gather my voice for a bit before the last duet.
The audience is not paying money to watch singers pace themselves to sing high notes, or save themselves for the most dramatic moments. They are there for the entire dramatic experience.
If I am not tired by the end of a big role, something’s wrong. I don’t mean vocally tired but emotionally drained. There have also been times when I have come off the stage vocally tired, also. I walk that fine line a little too much, but that’s me.
What do you think are the attributes that take a singer from good to great?
Attention to detail, pronunciaton, languages, and character analysis—all will transcend the ordinary and take an audience somewhere they have not been before. Good singers will raise the level of a performance, even raise the level of a cast.
Another reader writes that he is 32 years old, but has been discouraged because of his age. What is your opinion on that matter?
I did not see an opera until I was 32. He should start auditioning for agents, and directly for companies. If he is still getting turned down, then he has to stop and take a good look at himself and see where he is in his life, and if he has the goods.
Is there age discrimination in the business?
I don’t know the answer to that. There are a lot of voice teachers who will not tell someone it’s not going to happen … [because] this is the teacher’s bread and butter. So you have to be really objective, and that is tough, because singing comes from inside us.
If you are not getting encouragement from agents, general directors, and conductors, then you need to take a second look. About 10 years ago I remember an AGMA magazine printed out a statistic indicating that at that time, there were 3,000 professional singers in this country—and of that figure less than 5 percent earned more than $25,000 a year from singing. If you are not on the radar in this country as a young singer, and you want to do it bad enough, then you have to keep beating on the door. After a number of years, if you are not through that door, then you need to take a good hard look at yourself.
What are your thoughts regarding young artist programs. What should a young singer look for in a program?
Young artist programs in the United States seem to have taken the place of going to Europe, because the work and money are just not there any more. It is very difficult for young artists from about 25-30 to really get started.
If I were a director of a young artist program, I would make sure that the students had a great teacher to address their vocal needs. Often young singers leave college and neglect to continue studying voice on a regular basis; I think this is a huge mistake. If students do go to young artist programs, it is incumbent on the programs to have this available.Another area in which singers are often deficient is in stage deportment and acting: Acting 101 is not a bad idea. A great young artist program is one that combines great vocal training and the development of the actor. These are really essential.
When you listen to a young singer, what qualities get you excited?
I look for a great core, for focus in the voice, and [for] someone who understands breath and how to use it. I listen for their own sound, that they are not trying to sound like someone else. Be original. Take a risk.
My dad always told me to keep it beautiful, so if someone can make a beautiful sound and touch my heart, then they have my attention.
How can singers find the best coach?
To say that one person is the best coach is a little naive—there isn’t “one” who fits the bill. Whatever coach you go to, find a relationship that works for you.
What about your personal life? How did your family handle the pressure of an international career?
I have six children, ranging in age from 13 to 37 years old. The business of music is a heavy mistress. I had two marriages break up.
The second marriage broke up during the summer of 1989, right before the Metropolitan Opera season where I was scheduled to sing Michele in Il Tabarro and Alfio in Cavalleria Rusticana. Talk about life imitating art!
My wife, Donna, is a middle-school principal in Bloomington, Ind., where we reside. She has the same values that I lost somewhere along the way. We married because I trusted her—and she was interested in me for me, and not what I sang, or who I was. I adopted her two children and she adopted my daughter from my second marriage. Our relationship and our marriage is something that I cherish and that I would never, ever trade.
I made a lot of mistakes in my life and I have not been the greatest of fathers, mostly because I was not there for birthdays, graduations, or even athletic events. The music business is a heavy mistress. We are fine now because I finally understand that family is my number one priority. Now, for example, I never travel without my wife. To see my son march in a drum corps in Allentown, Penn., I had to fly from Holland to New York City, and then drive to Allentown to get there in time for the event. The next day I had to drive back to New York and catch a return flight to Holland.
I have flown from New York to Indianapolis and driven to Bedford, Ind. just to see a junior high school basketball game, because that was all I could do. I believe I am a pretty good dad, also.
I have also rediscovered my Native American roots and the spirituality that accompanies it. Lora Siders, a tribal elder and historian for the Miami Nation of Indians of Indiana, has been my mentor and has put me on “the good road.” Part of being the head of my family is being a good warrior, which has a different connotation today than it used to. A warrior provides for the women and children as well as those in need. A man who gives the most is the richest man.
If you had it to do over again, is there anything you might do differently in your career?
No, not really. The operatic career was inserted in my life; I had no intention of doing it. When I was in San Francisco, I used to go to piano bars, just because I loved to sing the pop tunes, or what is now called crossover.
It has now been 40 years, and it has been a great career.
You know, your voice leads you; you don’t lead your voice. Your voice will lead you to your destiny. I know if you are persistent and keep trying, some day, somehow, it will happen.
