I’ve decided to consolidate all my scratchings, so…for new posts and to keep up on the news, find me at http://www.lauremeloy.co.uk
I’ve decided to consolidate all my scratchings, so…for new posts and to keep up on the news, find me at http://www.lauremeloy.co.uk
2018 has been a year of poetry, art song and…the movies!
The Femme Lunatique project, One Art, has had a bumper year, with debuts in Chicago and Tenby, Wales, as well as showcase performances in Margate (POW! Festival), Broadstairs (BroadstairsLit Fest) and Faversham. The companion CD was named a winner in the Hawai’i Public Radio International Art Song Contest, with the winners’ concert broadcast in April . A song recital version of the One Art monodrama will be presented in April 2019 on the Music at York Street concert series.
After more than 10 years, I viewed the film RocketMen, a documentary about NASA in which I provided the vocals in the music soundtrack. Appropriately, it was during a family holiday to Orlando, Florida, where we visited the Kennedy Space Center! Netflix (US version) carried the film at the time, so I finally know how the musical tracks fit the plot. The film was originally released only in Japan, was shown later on PBS in the USA, and has yet to be shown in the UK. Here is a little video I put together with images that reflect the mood of the film (password: rocketmen.) I always wanted to be an astronaut, after all…
Another blast from the past was a 16 minute highlight reel from last year’s performances of Zaïde/Adama at Theater Freiburg, uploaded onto Vimeo by composer Chaya Czernowin.
Other 2018 events included a Brahms Requiem for Faversham Music Festival, and singing art songs by Dominick Argento for a magical ‘goddess unwrapping ceremony.’
Argento’s music will be making further appearances in 2019 and 2020, with planned performances of his chamber opera Miss Havisham’s Wedding Night. More details soon!
Another new role for me is Senta in Der Fliegende Holländer. I’m very exciting about my first foray into Wagner-land, and will feature a duet from this opera in an upcoming gala performance. Some upcoming local appearances and workshops in 2019 include:
12 January 2-3 p.m. Sing for your Sanity workshop Horsebridge, Whitstable
9 February 2-3 p.m. Sing for your Sanity workshop Horsebridge, Whitstable
16 February (time TBC) Opera Gala Faversham (venue TBC)
9 March 2-3 p.m. Sing for your Sanity workshop Horsebridge, Whitstable
27 April 7:30 p.m. One Art MAYS York Street Methodist Church, Broadstairs
(As always, up-to-date listings and more details can be found at http://www.lauremeloy.co.uk)
Happy New Year!
I have a confession to make. I once did a very naughty thing on tour. (No, not THAT. You think I’d be telling you THAT??)
Now, bear in mind this was a long, long time ago, back when I was an apprentice/young artist and didn’t know any better. Well, maybe I did know better, but I did it anyway. Please don’t judge me. Besides, it was irresistible at the time.
Where to begin? Well. The tour was an educational outreach type thing. The opera company in question (which shall remain nameless) hired four young singers, fresh out of graduate music programmes, to sing two school shows (one for primary schools and one for secondary schools) plus various fundraising events, opera galas, concerts with orchestra, etc. A soprano (me), a mezzo, a tenor, and a bass. We rehearsed for a few days, and then toured all over the region presenting opera to children. Four singers, a pianist (with his very own electric keyboard) and a driver/stagehand/admin/general overseer. In a van. For over two months.
Now, when you are thrown together with a small group of people, for whatever reason, and asked to work together intensely for several weeks, things happen. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. You can have affairs, you can end up hating each other, or driving each other crazy. Or, as happened for me and the bass, you can bond through adversity and forge a life-long friendship. Friendship encompasses many things: confiding in each other, spending time together, building each other’s confidence, offering a shoulder to cry on when needed…and behaving like tiny children in a sandbox.
We had fun. We discovered that the ‘only gay bar in the village’ was affectionately known as ‘the wrinkle room’ because the clientele were…greatly blessed in years, shall we say. (We certainly stood out.) My friend read aloud to us in the van and we all enjoyed hearing novels in his marvellously soothing rumble. In one very, very small town, we walked into a local tavern and were immediately picked out as strangers and had to buy everyone in the bar a drink to avoid being burned as witches (well, almost; luckily beer was cheap and the crowd was small.) We got up the noses of patrons at a motel (who all seemed to know one another; I can only think they were travelling salesmen and frequently stayed at this particular motel) while watching TV in the lobby, by shouting out the answers on Wheel of Fortune before everyone else. Apparently they weren’t used to people who were (ahem) slightly faster than them. Oh, and the first to guess the right answers got free beer, so I guess we were stealing their drinks. (Hey, we’re opera singers. Over educated and very good with languages. And often in need of beer money. But even we couldn’t drink THAT much beer…we were happy to share with the disgruntled salesmen.)
But, despite all the bars and beer (quite a lot of that, wasn’t there?) none of that makes me feel guilty. How to explain my dreadful sin?
More background: while the tour went on, we began rehearsing for a finale concert with orchestra, and each of us had a big show-off aria to sing. The other piece of backstory you should know is that at one of our promotional appearances, the caterers provided large tins of alphabet biscuits – a bit like party rings or animal crackers, but shaped as different letters of the alphabet. It may have been at a school where we were being filmed for local television, but the food was for the adults involved so it seemed rather incongruous at the time. Anyway, nobody ate the cookies and, knowing we were all starving artists and probably getting bored on our long tour, the hosts of this little tea party gave us the left over tins to carry around in the van and snack on as we pleased. There were a lot of biscuits: as I said, nobody really wanted to eat them at the reception.
OK, so, four singers, a pianist, and our long-suffering driver/stage manager/minder in a van. School show, lunch, rehearsal, back to the digs. Big tins of alphabet cookies under the seats of the van. I’m rehearsing Lucia’s mad scene, the mezzo is going to sing Cenerentola’s aria, my bff the bass is doing the catalogue aria from Don Giovanni, and the tenor…Daughter of the Regiment.
Now, that aria is a challenge at the best of times. 14 high C’s. When Covent Garden did a new production of Fille du Regiment after 40 years it was front page news. Everyone thought that NOBODY could sing that role except Pavarotti, and, until Juan Diego Flórez came along, they were right. This tour was many, many years before the Covent Garden revival. I will not reveal the name of our tenor in this story, but I will tell you one thing:
He wasn’t Juan Diego Flórez.
(Even typing that makes me feel guilty, so I won’t say any more about it…I will leave it to your catty imaginations. Meow.) (Seriously, I have a thing about not bad-mouthing colleagues. Karma, and all that. This is a confession, people!)
Anyway, we were tired, we were overworked, we were underpaid, and we were in need of a laugh. And nobody wanted to eat those damn cookies.
I can’t remember whose idea it was. (I’d like to think it was mine: I’m a big fan of crossword puzzles and, as noted above, a wiz at Wheel of Fortune. But it was probably Monsieur Bass, who was far funnier than I can ever hope to be.) Somehow, the thought came over us that we should ‘help out’ our friend the tenor. We dug the cookies out from under the seats. Our giggling – which we really did try to suppress so as not to spoil the surprise – became so noticeable that the driver wanted to know what was going on. (‘What is so flipping funny? Don’t make me stop this van you kids!’)
It took quite a while to fish out all the letters ‘C’ from those cookie tins.
We presented them to our colleague in (what we hoped was) a spirit of supportive fun. Everyone, even the tenor, laughed.
To tenors everywhere, and especially my colleague from that tour, sincere apologies. I know it’s not easy. (I really hope he’s forgiven us by now.)
For MDJ, with love forever.
I am writing this in the middle of a ridiculously complicated logistical funfair of a trip. (A not uncommon occurrence in the life of an opera singer.)Offered a hearing at a decent mid-level European opera house the DAY AFTER a performance in one of the western-most corners of the U.K., I said, well yes, of course I’ll be there!!
One advantage of this kind of impossible scheduling is that I can focus my nerves on actually GETTING there rather than on the performance or the audition. Audience rather small? Nobody bought my CD? So what! I did it, I got there, sang the blummin’ thing, AND made it to the station in time for my train to the airport! Success!
Another (slightly less cynical) positive is that I can choose to treat the whole thing as a mini adventure. For three days, I am the mad diva, dropping in on audiences far and wide and moving on. Also, that wild western corner of Britain is very pretty, the people were friendly, my hosts picked me up from the station, fed me, and generally treated me like an honoured guest. A lovely couple in the audience once lived in the European city I am flitting off to, and tell me all the beautiful sights that await me there.
p.s. Edited after I arrived safely home…
I’ve always felt a bit of an odd one amongst my opera-singing colleagues. Of course, many singers can point to an earlier dream or vocation: there are famous examples of those who were on their way to becoming doctors, lawyers, and scientists when they were ‘discovered’ to have an amazing singing voice, or started out playing an instrument before deciding to pursue a vocal career. But the majority have wanted to be opera singers since early childhood. Not me. I didn’t decide I wanted to study singing until my late teens, and didn’t start to specialise as a classical singer until part way through my bachelor’s degree.
What I really wanted to be when I grew up was an astronaut. Star Trek reruns (I’m too young *ahem* to have watched the original series when it first aired) and the Space Shuttle programme fired my pre-adolescent imagination…wow, I want to go to outer space!
I was reminded of those old dreams recently, taking my youngest son to the Kennedy Space Center in Florida. We got to meet an actual astronaut, Anna Fisher, who was among the first American women (and the first mother) to go into space, and I remembered how exciting it was to learn that girls could grow up to be astronauts in real life, not just on TV.
Somehow music took over from studying the science or engineering I would have needed to apply to the space programme. I started aiming for the ‘star-flaming queen of night’ instead of for the stars. A few years ago, however, I did get to add a tiny contribution to NASA history, providing the solo vocal line in the background music (scored by British composer Richard Blair-Oliphant) for the documentary RocketMen, a joint BBC/Sony Pictures depiction of the first 50 years of the American space programme. The film had its initial cinematic release in Japan, and is now available on Netflix in the US. (Not, sadly, in the UK however.)
Perhaps that will be the closest I ever get to participating in the space programme; at least I’ve been able to wear some suspiciously Star Trekkish costumes over the years…
RocketMen can be seen in the USA on Netflix.
A short preview is available here on YouTube: https://youtu.be/SUQPYockjf0
Can I be both an opera singer and a good feminist? How do we reconcile participating in a sexist art form while promoting equality in our personal and political lives?
Many opera singers have come forward in the #MeToo campaign to say that sexually predatory men are not just to be found in Hollywood. No surprise there: sadly it seems to occur throughout most if not all workplaces. Beyond this despicable real life behaviour, the art form itself is sexist, both in plot (damsel in distress needing rescue, wanton woman being punished, powerful women being depicted as evil, etc.) and in practice (fewer roles for women compared to roles for men in most of the opera repertoire, most women’s roles falling within a very narrow stereotype.) It could (and often is) argued that this is as a result of most of the ‘standard’ repertoire being written in a less enlightened time than our own: the 18th and 19th centuries weren’t exactly a golden age of feminism. But even in the 20th and 21st centuries, few operas were, or are being, written with balanced casting and storylines. And in 2018 we’re still talking about how few women are taken seriously as conductors and composers (there has been some progress in the number of female stage directors. Some.)
My feelings of unease also stem from an uncomfortable suspicion that many opera fans – my audience, the people I’m supposed to be doing all this hard work for – are supporting these attitudes. Or at least they don’t notice, or don’t care about, the sexism endemic to the artform. It’s a bit disconcerting to think that someone applauding my singing may at the same time not believe in my rights as an individual.
It doesn’t have to be this way. Opera is meant to be about telling stories in the most heightened, passionate, and virtuosic means possible. Taking the human voice to its extremes. What has gender got to do with that? Making art at the very highest level: that’s not sexist at it’s core. So opera doesn’t have to be sexist, but what can we do?
As a start: Support other women as composers, librettists, directors, conductors, and impresarios; Treat other female singers as collaborators rather than competitors; ‘Come out’ as feminists and speak out when we see mistakes of the past being repeated and reinforced.
So, can I be both an opera singer and a good feminist?
I’m doing my best.
The International Art Song Contest Winners’ Concert will be broadcast on Hawai’i Public Radio tomorrow, 21 April 2018.
More information here: Singing and Other Sins archive
Elizabeth Bishop’s poem One Art begins with the lines :
‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’
We are going to lose stuff, jobs, dreams, even people, in course of our lifetime. Why not get good at it? In fact, we probably could all stand to lose things we no longer need: extra pounds, bad attitudes, painful memories, household clutter. Books outining methods of clearing out our clutter are very popular at the moment, and more of us are valuing experiences over possessions. The younger generation are no longer interested in having the ‘family heirlooms’ of the past, just at the same time that the ageing baby boom generation is leaving ever bigger piles of stuff behind. But it’s not just redundant possessions that we need to lose, it’s the desire, compulsion even, to hang onto every detail of our past, and the belief that somehow we are diminished without our ‘stuff’ that needs to get lost.
We are going to lose stuff, jobs, dreams, even people, in course of our lifetime. Why not get good at it?
I have fought ‘pack-rat-itis’ practically my whole life, and it is Bishop’s final line ‘It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.’ that really hit home: make art out of your losses. Write a poem. Paint a picture. Don’t just accept loss, embrace it as an opportunity to create something new out of what is left behind. (I found Bishop’s poem so inspiring, I commissioned a composer to set it into a modern art song, and then performed and recorded it. She changed ‘write it!’ to ‘sing it!’ For me.) When I am faced with sorting through, discarding/donating/recycling my own sentimental clutter, I look for ways to creatively use small pieces of the items in patchwork or collage, making ‘art’ out of letting go.
Recently my son came to me with one of his favourite t-shirts that he had outgrown. Now, he seems miraculously free of the pack-rat gene, and I hope he will stay that way. But he really liked that t-shirt. ‘Can you make me a cushion like you did before?’ (I had made a cushion cover for his older sister, using an old hoodie, her favourite, which reminded her of a family holiday, but that she had outgrown.) He wanted to let go of the t-shirt – after all, it no longer fit – but not the memories. We gathered a few more amusing bits and a much smaller shirt that I had been saving back for this purpose, and he did the designing while I did the sewing. Here is the result.
Now, I’m not the first person to make things like this, in fact it’s part of an art form that goes back centuries, from mosaic to collage to crazy quilts. Most of the time, people, mainly women, made patchwork quilts out of necessity, using worn out clothes and scraps left over from other sewing projects, because they couldn’t afford to waste anything. These days, we – unfortunately – can very much afford to waste. So the making of this type of handicraft serves another purpose: to preserve memories, and to give ourselves a way of letting go of some possessions by using small parts of them to make something new. This way, we can let go, accept loss, even embrace it, with gentleness, creativity and even joy. The sadness of having to throw something away (or recycle it in some way) is replaced by the excitement of creation.
Very pleased to announce that a track from ONE ART was chosen as a winner in the Hawai’i Public Radio International Art Song Contest.
The winners’ concert will be broadcast in early 2018 (exact date and time TBC), featuring a 15 minute mini-recital selected from the CD ONE ART. The semi-finalist concert was played on Singing and other Sins, on the 16th December 2017. A podcast version can be heard here:
Many thanks to the folks at HPR for choosing our recording!