A Week of Songs

After roasting swans last week in our nation's capital, I get to spend this week singing songs of a different nature.  

Rehearsing Hahn at the Morgan (thanks to Helicon's Artistic Director, James Roe, for the pic)

Tonight, I perform with an incredible, slightly under-the-radar organization called Helicon in one of their few public performances in the group's history.  Helicon is a private chamber music society that meets four times a year for four different themed musical symposiums.  At these evenings, Helicon's subscribers get to experience programs and discussions of chamber music performed and discussed by phenomenal musicians who specialize in this repertoire.  I've performed with the organization a few times now, and their evenings are truly an extraordinary experience.  They are New York City's modern-day, musical salon. 

This evening's program at the Morgan Library (a unique opportunity for the general public to get to experience a taste of of what Helicon has to offer) focuses on the musical life surrounding Marcel Proust.  My contribution to tonight's concert will be an extended set of songs by Reynaldo Hahn, who was Proust's lover for an extended period. 

Reynaldo Hahn (August 9, 1874 – January 28, 1947)

A friend described Hahn's music as "cabaret music, in the style of French Art Song" the other night at dinner.  I must admit, considering Hahn wrote most of these songs for himself to sing while he accompanied himself at the piano with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, my friend's description is somewhat accurate.  But they are also so much more than that - Hahn was an incredibly complex musical thinker (he wrote extensively on the subject and was a noted musical critic in his day) and the poetry he was drawn to was incredibly sophisticated.  His songs are some of the most breathtakingly beautiful music I've ever performed.  I've noticed over the years that the most difficult music to master is the music that sounds the most simple.  Hahn was a master of simplicity, and each of these gems, while finely crafted and extremely detailed, come off as if they are effortless.  Here's just one example of the beauty he was capable of creating:

On Friday, Myra and I revisit the two familiar friends pictured below in recital in North Carolina.  You can read some of my ramblings about that program here and here...or (if you'll excuse the shameless plug) in the my liner notes for our latest album, which you can purchase here and here.

Commercial Carmina

In honor of my post yesterday...


It's not necessarily a car commercial, but it's a commercial, and it has cars...





And one more Carmina commercial for your amusement:





Last night was great fun!  We have two nights left at the Kennedy Center - if you're around DC and want to see it, tickets and concert info are here.

Carmina, Revisted

A lot of classical musicians roll their eyes when you mention Carmina Burana.  “Oh, it’s so silly!” they say.  When you mention Carmina Burana to someone who isn’t super familiar with classical music, they’ll say, “I’m not sure I know that piece?”  To which musicians always reply, “Oh yes, you do – it’s in, like, every car commercial you’ve ever seen…”

Eight years ago, I was walking down the street in New York City when my cell phone rang.  It was Kim Witman from Wolf Trap Opera who wanted to know if I would be interested in singing Carmina Burana with the National Symphony Orchestra in the Filene Center when I got to Wolf Trap in a few weeks.  The funny thing is, when she called, my knowledge of the piece was limited to the following two facts: The opening movement was in, like, every car commercial; and I would have to sing three high D’s. Aside from that, I really didn’t know anything else about it. 

At our first rehearsal here in DC at the Kennedy Center, I realized that I actually knew more of the piece than I thought I did at the time – I’d heard bits and bobs of it here and there on various recordings and in, yes, car commercials. It occurred to me that the main reason that I wasn’t so familiar with the piece was a result of the car commercial thing – I just assumed it wasn’t “serious” music. But these really beautiful and fascinating moments of music that were new to me kept occurring left and right in rehearsal, and I found myself completely charmed and moved by the piece.

Eight years and many performances later, as I’ve been rehearsing the piece with the NSO again, revisiting this place where I learned this piece this week, I’ve been marveling at how Orff's music hasn’t gotten old for me.  I don’t have much to sing in this piece, so I end up spending most of the concerts listening. After all these times doing it, the In Trutina still makes my eyes water up a little but, the Ego sum abbas still makes me chuckle, and the Blanziflor et Helena still gives me gooseflesh.  It’s just extraordinary music.  I guess that accounts for its popularity.  It’s obvious that the reason it has bled so pervasively throughout our culture is not because it is cheesy, but because it is so extraordinarily exciting and beautiful.

If you are in the DC area, we perform tonight, as well as Friday and Saturday at the Kennedy Center.  More info is here.

Album One

You’ve probably noticed the ad for my debut solo album on Avie at the top right corner of the blog for the last month or so…the album was released digitally this week (the physical release was a little earlier this month), so I feel it behooves me to post about it for a moment. Both Myra and I are really excited about the album, as it represents not only what was an incredibly important step in our preparation for our Carnegie Hall debut recital last fall, but also the beginning of a new exciting artistic chapter for us. 

Since the album’s release, the most commonly asked question has been “Why Britten?”  The main reason I was drawn to Britten was that over the past few years, between various recitalings and my summers exploring vocal chamber music at Marlboro, I've become increasingly amazed by the power of Britten.  I wrote a bit about my first outing of Winter Words in a small, Midwestern town in the album’s liner notes, and how I was so surprised by the positive impact it had on the audience there.  I learned many valuable lessons from that concert about never underestimating an audience, and how emotionally moving Britten’s music is.  Since that concert, I feel as if I have become a missionary for his music, proselytizing to anyone who will listen.

Back when Myra and I were given the opportunity to perform a debut recital in Carnegie Hall, the big question was: what music do we sing?  Almost immediately, my obsession with Britten and his music took over, and the next thing we knew, we had an entire program that was mostly comprised of his music.  As we dug deeper into these pieces during our rehearsals, we felt that we simply had to record it.  In the process of learning about Britten these past couple of years, we have inevitably become fascinated with other pieces of his music, and are excited to explore more of it in the recording studio as we put together the next album!

You can purchase the album on iTunes here, and (if you are an old-fashioned CD collector, like me) you can order physical copies of the album at Amazon.com here.

We hope you enjoy!

A Decade

Ten years ago I had just moved to New York City.

Ten years ago I was just beginning a Master’s degree at Manhattan School of Music.

Ten years ago my roommate woke me up saying, “oh my god, you’ve got to see this…”

Ten years ago we sat in our living room together, watching our tv in shock and horror.

We watched as one of the World Trade Center towers smoked and burned.

We watched a second plane fly into the second Twin Tower.

We watched as the towers crumbled before our eyes, crushing the people trapped within, clouds of dust flooding the streets, people running for their lives.

Ten years ago we sat around all day wondering what to do, where to go.

Ten years ago we climbed to the roof of our building with some friends who lived upstairs and looked toward downtown.

We watched the giant, thick tower of endless smoke that was rising into the sky.

We watched fighter jets circle Manhattan in the afternoon sun.

We watched as our silent, empty streets filled with people, forced to walk home from work.

Ten years ago we speculated as to who would have done this.

Ten years ago we wondered why this was happening.

Ten years ago we felt under attack.

Ten years ago our world changed.

Ten years ago, I was stunned at the level of violence and hate humanity was capable of. 

Ten years ago, I also marveled at the beauty and compassion humanity was capable of. 

I watched people holding, comforting each other at candlelit shrines all over New York.

I watched as subway stations became wall-papered with pictures of loved ones.

I watched strangers smile at each other as they walked by on the street.

I watched as people committed random acts of kindness in one of the toughest cities in the world.

I watched as one of the loneliest cities in the world to live in became a community, united and strong.

Now, after a five-year hiatus in Houston, I am a resident of New York City again.

Now, I am working at the opposite end of the country in Los Angeles.

Now, after a decade of desensitizing myself to all that happened, I find myself on the edge of tears as the world reminisces.

Now, I am about to sing my first Mozart Requiem.

Now, I think of all the lives lost on that day and since as I study Mozart’s unfinished music.

Now, I am grateful that I am immersed in a profession that is dedicated to realizing the beauty that humanity is capable of.

Now, as the world marks a decade since September 11, 2001, I find that all I really want to say is this:

I really believe that, all being human, we are all in essence one.

When we hurt each other, we hurt ourselves. 

When we kill each other, we kill ourselves. 

I leave you with this excerpt from Handel’s oratorio, Theodora:

Descend, kind Pity, heavenly guest,

Descend, and fill each human breast with sympathizing woe.

That liberty and peace of mind may sweetly harmonize mankind,

And bless the world below.

Checking The Sound

One aspect of hopping from one concert hall to another is adjusting to each acoustic once we arrive.  While the technique of sound production remains the same, the sensation of singing can differ vastly between venues.  What I love about sound check rehearsals is that, in addition to being a chance to feel out the sonic space, it's also a chance for us to tweak things a bit in between performances.  Performance always brings out new things that can't occur in the rehearsal room - sound checks allow us to revisit things and see which new things from each performance worked, and which new things didn't.  It keeps things fresh and alive, and it's a chance for the team to reconnect, regroup, and refocus.

Sound checks are also an opportunity for me to play with my camera...here are some shots from both Bucharest and Torino...

Our noble Ariodante for this tour, Ann Hallenberg

Ginevra - Roberta Mameli

Dmitry Sinkovsky - Il Complesso Barocco's fearless leader

Dalinda (who is quite mean to me in the opera...) - Ana Quintans (who is incredibly sweet to me in real life!)

Wandering Through Bucharest

A few photos I took as I was wandering around Bucharest trying to stay awake for our concert late Sunday night (the show started at 10:30pm...it's a very strange feeling to begin warming up for a performance at 10:00pm...)

Happy Labor Day

Happy Labor Day weekend to all of you back in the US...


Again, I find myself abroad for an American holiday...this time I am in one of the more exotic places I've ever visited: Bucharest, Romania.  We're about to revisit Ariodante in concert at the George Enescu Festival.  Our concert is late tomorrow night here:

It looks really beautiful from the outside, I can't wait to see the inside tomorrow.  I've been really amazed by this place since we landed here this afternoon.  You can really feel that it's a place of transitions - from communist dictatorship to capitalist democracy and from the Middle East to Europe.  As I explored a bit this evening, I walked by countless people smoking hookahs in the midst of European architecture that earned this city the nickname "Le Petit Paris", and by run-down, drab communist-era buildings that stood next-door to beautifully restored neo-classical buildings that housed banks and familiar fast-food chains.  My initial impression is that it's a place that is trying to figure itself out at the same time as it has a very distinct and strong sense of identity.  Culture is so vibrant here - on the way back to my hotel after dinner, I passed a Belgian band giving a concert for people at a street fair near our restaurant; outside the Athenaeum, people were gathering to hear a concert with the Venice Baroque Orchestra; and in the adjacent plaza a documentary about Beethoven's Eroica Symphony was being screened for the crowd gathered there.  I'm starting to wish that we had an extra couple of hours to get to know this place a little better before we leave.


It's funny to think that the summer has already passed us by - it has really flown by for me this year.  I barely feel like I had a chance to register that it was summertime, aside from a few really uncomfortably hot and sticky (and mosquito-ridden) days in Treviso a week and a half ago. But they say that time flies when you're having fun, and I must concede - it's completely true.  I've had an incredible time this summer running from one fantastic musical experience to the next, exploring one new city after the other, and having great times with many friends, both old and new.


I leave you with a few pictures I took of a particularly beautiful Italian sunset in Mondovì the other day.  Some of that fun I've been having is playing around with the various camera apps on my iPhone...

Running Around

Earlier this month, on my way to sing a recital in Toronto, I walked by this sign:

I did a bit of a double-take, thinking to myself: but my life is all about running around! As I warmed-up for the concert that night, I found myself pondering what I saw on that church sign, wondering if I was losing touch with myself. The more I thought about it, the more I disagreed with the sign. On the contrary, I actually feel quite in touch with myself because I run around for a living.

Just a few days before I saw that sign, I was in Chicago having a conversation with some friends over dinner about nationalism and xenophobia, in which we were discussing, among other things, the recent shootings in Norway. At one point in the conversation, I said to my friends, “I can't make sense of that kind of action. Perhaps it's because I run around the world so much for work that my opinion has been shaped this way, but I have come to the fairly radical view that humanity is one and that, as a result, national borders almost seem a bit silly to me. Every week I am somewhere different, and I see how, despite differences of language and culture, we are all the same. We are all citizens of the world, and in this sense family. Why be so afraid of each other?” My Chicago friends pointed out to me that my point of view was somewhat unique, partly because most people don't travel as much as I do. I had to agree with them - my life is not what most people would consider "normal".

The dinner-conversation in Chicago and the seeing that sign a few days later in Toronto gave me a bit of a new perspective into how I am lucky to be running around all the time. Does the travel get to me? Yes, it totally does. Do I get homesick? All the time. Do I miss my loved ones and hate not being able to be there for important moments? Totally. But I am really privileged to have this much time alone on planes, trains, automobiles and in hotels and sublet corporate apartments in strange, new cities in foreign lands. I am lucky to be able to spend this much time meditating on life, music, and seeing the world. Faced with the perpetual challenges of new places, new situations, new people, new languages, and new cultures, I am forced to stay open and to see how I fit into the constantly changing world around me. Forever moving forward, I am never stagnant, never inert, and am always growing, always learning. I am made constantly aware of who I am, where I have come from, as well as who I want to be.

Here's a little video I came across last month while pondering all of this...it seemed apt to post it here:

MOVE from Rick Mereki on Vimeo.

Weekend Inspiration

I'm about to step into the recording studio this weekend (in an incredibly charming town in Italy, I might add), for a project that I'll be able to tell you more about soon. In the meantime, I leave you with my inspiration for the next couple days:

"Brava! Brava! Sono tanto brava! Brava!
Sono tanto brava, sono brava
sono tanto brava
faccio quasi tutto con la voce, sembro un usignolo sì
forse...forse qualche nota non è proprio giusta...giusta
però io sono certa che così nessuno sa cantar
sono come un uccellin
senti il trillo...senti il trillo.
State un pò a sentir queste note così basse che so fare
poi vado su, vado su, vado su.
Brava! Brava! Come sono brava! Brava!
Certo se qualcuno vuole proprio...proprio pignolare
forse qualcosa non so fare ma sicuramente sì
non può essere che una cosa
che non ha nessun valore se vogliamo ricordare
che come me nessuno sa cantare
sono come un uccellin
senti il trillo...senti il trillo
e vi ricordate quelle note così basse che so fare.
Poi vado su...vado su...vado su
su...su...come due note
che volano nel cielo
E tutti sanno
che ho tanto di quel fiato
che neppure una balena può resistere sott'acqua
stando senza respirare tutto il tempo che io tengo questo "mi".
Brava! Brava! Come sono brava! Brava!
Sono tanto brava, sono brava
sono tanto brava
faccio quasi tutto con la voce, sembro un usignolo sì
però mi sentirei un poco...poco più tranquilla
se potessi questa sera farmi dire che son brava sì
ma che a dirlo siate voi
voi voi voi voi voi voi voi voi
voi che lo sentite questo povero mio cuore che fa bum
bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum bum!
Brava! Brava!
Brava! Brava!
Brava!"

Happy Friday!

Masters and Students

“You are always a student, never a master. You have to keep moving forward.”

- Conrad Hall

This quote came to my mind frequently as I was doing some guest coaching in Chicago at Collaborative Arts Institute of Chicago last week. It’s not often that I am in the position of coach or teacher. Most of the time I am out on the road, performing and rehearsing, and when I am home I try to catch as many lessons with my voice teacher as possible, and in these ways I am mostly focused on forging my own path of musical growth – I am the perpetual student. The closest I ever feel I come to that position of “master” is the rare occasion that I am asked to give a Master Class or (like last week) work privately as a guest coach/teacher.

Earlier in the week before flying out to Chicago, I had a two-hour lesson of my own with my teacher in New York. After having spent most of the summer away from her in Europe, hopping from one performance to another, I found it a bit jarring to put my student hat back on. I was impatient with myself, and easily frustrated – it felt like banging my head against a brick wall. I left the lesson feeling fussy that I hadn’t made as much progress through all the upcoming repertoire that I wanted to touch on with my teacher. Having not seen each other in so long, we decided to go for a drink to catch up, and I forgot my frustrations as we chatted over a glass of wine on 7^th Avenue.

A couple of days later in Chicago, the thing that struck me so much about my guest coaching sessions was how working with the singers who came in last week was actually a lesson for me in being a student. I was struck by how open they were to try my suggestions and how inquisitive they were in trying to understand the numerous concepts that I was throwing them. Listening to them grapple with and digest these new ideas as they took giant strides forward was fascinating. It made me realize how much I can get in my own way in my own moments of study – jumping straight from the stage to the studio can be a very tricky transition. Being on stage requires an ownership of knowledge and experience in order to find the confidence and trust in oneself to stand up and perform for an audience. Being in the studio, donning the disciple’s robes requires a different kind of mindset – that open and inquisitive one that the singers who were working with me in the CAIC studios had.

When I returned to New York over the weekend, I met up with my teacher for one more two hour extravaganza. This time, though, I came with that open mindset and did my best to set all the knowledge and experience I already had aside, quieting the impatient voices in my head, and only calling on all that experience when it related to something she was saying. The lesson was incredible, and perhaps one of the most productive I’ve had all year. We made tremendous progress, and I left feeling a sense of accomplishment and focus.

I guess we just have to constantly keep adding to the pot of knowledge and experience – it’s bottomless, really, and never full.

(reposted from the CAIC blog - Collaborative Musings - where I am a guest blogger once a month)