Bach

My eyes flared open, I rolled over to look at the time on my phone. 6:34 AM. I groaned inwardly at the light flooding through the translucent curtains in my dorm room and put a pillow over my head, vainly hoping to shut out the light and fall back asleep. Instead of dozing, I calculated exactly how much sleep I had managed to get – about 5 and a half hours. I thought of a Men's Health article I read in an effort to distract myself from realizing that I was running on an elliptical machine at the gym the other day which informed me that in order to lose weight, prolong my life, and maintain my immune system's strength among other things I needed to make sure I get 8 hours of sleep a night. Catastrophic sequences in my frenzied mind fired off from there, and, irate at my inability to quiet my mind, I desperately endeavored to meditate in the hopes that I would drift into dreamland. I eventually gave up, and dragged myself to the gym to get the day started.

On the way to the gym, I chatted with the Marlboro Bookstore shopkeep, and we complained about the chilly, wet weather that has plagued us so much of the summer. She worried that winter would be unbearable. I silently thanked the heavens I wouldn't be here for it and hopped on the elliptical.

The day continued with a rehearsal in the concert hall of the Britten that I will be performing with my friend, Sivan, this weekend, and being in the hall, we recorded our rehearsal. The knowledge that the devilish imps that microphones are were hanging at the front of the stage set off the tiny, yet oh-so-potent critical demons off in my mind. A veritable peanut gallery of bitchiness distracting me from the task at hand – to sing seven minutes of T.S. Eliot poetry.

By the time I got to lunch, I could barely bring myself to enter the table's conversation, my temples throbbing, and my neck and back stiff and whining. I left to try to lie down for a bit before my next rehearsal, but again sleep eluded me.

I arrived just in time for a rehearsal of a Bach aria with Lydia and Yvonne, and we kicked off the rehearsal complaining about a variety of kvetches: the cold weather, the dryness, how tired we were, the fact that everyone is getting sick, the toilet that was plugged for an entire day in my dorm, the acoustic in the rehearsal room in the Presser building, the price of lip balm. About 10 minutes into the rehearsal, there was a moment of silence, and Yvonne began to play. Lydia joined her, gently improvising a flowing continuo line to accompany her, and we were off. Melodies and counter-melodies flowed together and then apart. Yvonne and I handed off phrases to each other, Lydia guiding us harmonically the whole way with the figured bass in her part. We were so exhausted, the music just poured out of us – we didn't have the energy to get in the way. Yvonne and Lydia approached and then played the final cadence, and there was silence. We could hear the wind rustling through the leaves outside, and we looked at each other. It felt as though a peaceful, profound, and deep contentment had taken us over without us even realizing it. Nothing else mattered, and, somehow, we were happy.

Nerves

A few weeks ago, I was standing in front of the Atlanta Symphony at their first rehearsal in their summer home, the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater at Encore Park, listening to the winds trade off the opening themes of Ecco ridente in cielo from The Barber of Seville, while sweat dripped down the sides of my face. As I took in my first breath to sing the opening lines, I felt my heart racing in my chest, and I realized that my perspiration was not only due to the sweltering heat.

The first time I sang the Count in Barber was in 2003, at the end of a pressure-filled, intense, and mind-blowing summer. I had just finished my first year in the HGO Studio, and earlier that summer had competed in the BBC Cardiff Singer of the World competition, sung my very first Carmina Burana with the National Symphony, and was experiencing my first summer as a Wolf Trap Filene Artist. By the time my first rehearsal for Barber came round towards the end of the summer, I was beginning to feel myself crack under the pressure of all of the incredible opportunities that had come my way in those months. The Count was the most difficult role I had ever encountered up until that point, and that summer at Wolf Trap would be the first time I ever performed a leading operatic role in a professional situation. It was also the second time I ever performed any Rossini in public for a paying audience. Warming up for that first rehearsal at Wolf Trap, I started to wonder if my voice was pretty enough. Would I be able to sing as fast as I wanted? Would my high notes come out? What if the conductor hated me? What if I didn't get along with the director? Did my colleagues all think that I sucked? My inner dialogue was creatively catastrophic as my worries and nerves overwhelmed my logical mind. By the time I opened my mouth to sing the first notes of my aria, I was convinced that I was going to be fired for my substandard-ness.

Midway through rehearsal, I realized that I could not live the rest of my life with that kind of neurotic drama going on in my head. It made it almost impossible to sing and sucked any sort of enjoyment I got out of making music. I resolved myself to finding some help when I got back to Houston, and the minute I got home after rehearsal, I bought a copy of The Artist's Way and have done morning pages almost every day since then.

Back in my Atlanta hotel, trying to relax and unwind after our rehearsal, I remarked on the phone to a friend that The Barber of Seville sent me into therapy. While I said that somewhat jokingly, it held a lot of truth. Barber forced me to change the way I approached music. It was, until that point, the first time I felt so much terror of performing that I wasn't sure if I would be able to pull it off. It was the first time I had ever questioned myself so profoundly that I wondered if I was cut out for a career in music. Facing that again for the first time in six years in Atlanta, I was quite vividly reminded from whence I came.

Putting on a brave face, I feigned calmness and nonchalance the day of the concert, but inside, I felt as if I were right back where I had been all those summers ago at Wolf Trap, questioning myself and my ability to negotiate Rossini's virtuosic and naked musical terrain. But this time, as I warmed up for the concert, all the work I had done dealing with my nerves the past six years started to seep in, and I found my nerves and self-doubt turning into adrenaline that was fuel for my focus. Midway through the aria, the first piece I sang on the concert, I realized that everything was going just fine, and that it was, in fact, fun. I felt myself relax, and I began to enjoy the summer night and getting to entertain the people who had braved the heat and humidity to hear this fun, lighthearted music.

Mini Escape

Before the simple intensity of Marlboro began this week, I carved out a couple of days of vacation for myself to visit one of my best friends for a fun and adventurous weekend in Portland.

The weather was phenomenal, so we took every advantage to be outside that we could.

All that being outside made me want to move west…

The Advocate

Yesterday, the Advocate published a profile piece on me in the online edition of their magazine. You can check it out here.

I am really grateful for the opportunity to be profiled in a magazine that I've read since before I came out of the closet. The magazine was one of the first places I saw being gay as a positive and not something that I had to hide or be ashamed of. It was really exciting to read through it yesterday morning, and get to see the final product of the interviews that I gave towards the beginning of the year, when the author was beginning the piece. The only awkward part of all this is that in the time since I gave those interviews, my personal life has changed significantly with the end of my marriage with Jeremy. For those of you who are visiting this blog for the first time because of the article, you can read my brief entry about our break-up here. I just feel that out of respect for Jeremy, it is necessary to direct you there.

While reading the article, I was taken back to last fall when we did get married, and I found it difficult to avoid ruminating over the maze of steps that led to where we are now. One lesson that I have learned is that politics and affairs of the heart do not mix well. Between the pressure of the deadline of Prop 8 and the November election, and my passion for our civil rights it was difficult to discern whether or not I was actually ready to take that step in our relationship. I obviously was not. But, I live, and I – hopefully – continue to learn. I hope that the gay marriage tide keeps moving in the progressive direction it has been since last November's devastating setbacks, and I look forward to a day when it is considered normal for any couple in love to get married.

Deepish Thoughts

Last week, I kept warning the many friends who came to witness my debut concerts with the San Francisco Symphony that I only had "five minutes of glory" in the program, feeling slightly guilty that they were going to sit through the entirety of the concerts just to see me sing. Of course, being a tenor, the thought that they would enjoy the parts of the concert that didn't include me didn't cross my mind until they all expressed their thoughts on the program in my dressing room after.

In actuality, my responsibilities in the Schubert Mass No. 6 in E-flat major amounted to much less than five minutes of glory – it was much closer to about two and half to three minutes of the roughly 51 minute piece. But a glorious few minutes they were. In our second and last rehearsal, Maestro referred to the section in which I sang (the "Et incarnates est" section of the Credo – a trio in A-flat for two tenors and a soprano in this Schubert setting) as follows: "For the audience, there is life before hearing the 'Et incarnatus' and then there is life after hearing the 'Et incarnatus'." After hearing that, a cellist sitting behind me muttered, "Whoa – no pressure…", sending the entire lower strings and myself into fits of laughter. For the rest of the Mass, I sat at the front of the stage in my tails (and in my new suit on Thursday afternoon) listening to Schubert's music and trying to look appropriately engaged and respectable.

The most frequently asked question last week was "what are you thinking while you are sitting up there?" Here are is a sampling, in no particular order, of some of the random thoughts that went through my head during the four concerts:

• I love this 'Kyrie'
  
• There are four people asleep in the center section of the audience
  
• Wow, this chorus sounds good.
  
• Oh, there's Debbie and Will.
  
• Wow, MTT is really committed to everything he does 150%. I could learn a lot from watching this man. It's like he has no fear and his completely and solely focused on the music and how he wants it to be shaped. It's such a calm and yet intensely passionate focus. Amazing.
  
• I wonder what the median age of this audience is today?
  
• That measure sounded so much like Mahler
  
• That passage sounds just like the Verdi Requiem
  
• The bass is walking out incredibly slowly today
  
• Why is everyone I got tickets for sitting so close?
  
• Why is that woman leaving now, of all times?
  
• It's so quiet during this pause! No coughing! Who knew it could be possible?
  
• I really am looking forward to eating that burger at Zuni tonight
  
• I hope I wasn't flat…
  
• The ladies of the chorus are always so in tune there – it's so lovely
  
• Ahhh…another fugal finish…

Onwards

There has been a sense of waiting to these first five months of the year. As I have struggled to adjust to all that has changed in my life since the turn of the year, I have been awaiting my chance to run away partly as a longed for escape as well as a chance to physically spur the process of moving on. As we enter the sixth month of 2009 and summer officially approaches, I find myself staring down a very long tunnel as I consider my travel schedule for the rest of the calendar year. In the past, this kind of beginning to a long stint of touring would simply seem depressing to me, as I would find myself dreading the dull ache of missing home for so long. But the paradigm of my life is different now, and I find that while I do still dread the prospect of ache of missing certain people (those people in whom I find my home these days), I find that I now perceive these next months of travel with anticipation and excitement, as well. It's a refreshing feeling, and for the first time I have the sense that I am going to be able to really enjoy and savor the luxuries and benefits this nomadically musical life affords me.

The next six months will see me in San Francisco, Atlanta, Marlboro, Buffalo, Rheingau, Edinburgh, as well as touring through England. Among the musical highlights I'm looking forward to, I'll get to debut with two symphony orchestras and two conductors that I have dreamed of performing with for many years. I'm also excited to continue along my journey of exploring Britten's music by diving into the Canticle V at Marlboro and performing my first Nocturne when I return to the Rheingau festival. And those are just some of the musical highlights. I've got many friends to look forward to spending time with, beautiful places both familiar and unfamiliar to see, a couple of stints of mini-vacation that I've built in to my schedule, and the excitement of finding a new physical home - all in all, a lot of things to look forward to with happy anticipation. Also, there are all of the unexpected surprises that come along throughout an adventure to look forward to, as well.

Today is the first day of travel, as I head off to spend some free days in San Francisco before my debut with the San Francisco Symphony next week. Let the adventure begin…

Prom Queen

On a decidedly unmusical note, this little story via the Slog made me smile this afternoon. Unfortunately, at my high school, we didn't have prom queens or kings. We cast lucky people in all of the roles in Saved by the Bell, instead. Imagine being voted Kelly Kapowski.

Barbiere auf Deutsch

Getting ready for an upcoming concert with the Atlanta Symphony has me revisiting Count Almaviva for the first time in many years. Coming back to Rossini is always a humbling experience, as I find that from a technical standpoint there is always further to go, regardless of how well it went the last time. I envy my colleagues who seem to be able to roll out of bed singing the stuff, tossing it off like it is the easiest thing in the world.

Trolling Youtube, I stumbled across this today, while studying various performances of the Count's first aria in the show. At least I only have to sing it in Italian.

Culture

In the weeks leading up to my venture here in Kansas City (I was a KC virgin up until my arrival yesterday afternoon), I've had numerous people give me their impressions of this city, which have been unanimously positive. I didn't know much about it beforehand, except that I had some very good family friends and a couple of wonderful colleagues who hailed from here. In recent weeks, as tomorrow's concert loomed closer and closer, people have described it as one of their favorite cities, and they've ordered me to go to a variety of places to eat barbequed flesh of various sorts. One random preview that made me smile was when a friend showed me this video from the local news over drinks at another friend's house. I would be so overjoyed if this woman came to our concert tomorrow.

Anyway, in my less than 24 hours here so far, I am totally charmed by the place. Upon my arrival at the airport, my driver even offered to give me a short tour of downtown before he dropped me off at my hotel – something I've never experienced from someone who works for a car service before. I've been impressed by the happy, easygoing, and welcoming atmosphere every moment since.

Last night, after a drink and quick dinner with the conductor and horn player, I ran to see some friends perform in the Lyric Opera of Kansas City's fun production of Pirates of Penzance. As I took my seat up in the top of the balcony of the almost sold-out theater, the person in the seat next to me started up a conversation. He asked me where I was from, and I told him that I flew in from New York City that morning. A little while into our conversation, he rolled his eyes and said for some not-so-evident, self-conscious reason, "Well, I mean, Kansas City isn't quite as cultural as New York." Taken aback, I looked around me at the multitudes of audience around us and pointed out that the crowd indicated that Kansas City was doing just fine on the culture front. About an hour into the performance, hearing the audience's uproarious and uncontrollable laughter and applause after each number, I wondered when the last time any classical music venue in New York was sold-out with an audience so clearly and naturally enjoying themselves on a Wednesday night. People here quite obviously genuinely enjoy their culture just fine. I'm quite impressed, Kansas City, quite impressed.

Doors and Maps

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us."

-Helen Keller

I came across that quote on a longtime colleague's blog while catching up on my blog-reading this morning, and I marveled at how little tidbits of wisdom seem to drop unbidden into our lives whenever we need them.

Right around the turn of the New Year, the door that was my relationship with Jeremy unexpectedly, abruptly and jarringly closed, leaving me bewildered, sad and wading through seemingly endless waves of grief. It made our marriage one of the shorter ones on record, I am embarrassed and sad to admit, and it has changed, to steal a turn of phrase said to me the other day, the map of my life in fundamental ways that have left me feeling, at times, lost, dazed, and utterly confused.

There have been innumerable awkward moments over the past months since that door shut, and almost everything – like bad break-up songs that suddenly take on a new and somewhat irritating poignancy at times like these – has the potential to remind me of this incredible change in my life. Nonetheless, I have found that I have really wanted to remain somewhat private up until now about it all. A student asked me at a question and answer session a little over a month ago whether all the travel and time away required of me was hard to deal with in my personal life. A journalist remarked to me during an interview that it must be difficult maintaining a relationship over such great distances. The answers I found that I could muster were simply – yes, it can be difficult and it is hard. And it has been.

Despite the sadness, remorse, and guilt that I have felt about that one, significant door being shut, I find that Helen is wise. There are multitudes of possibilities for happiness and fulfillment before me. Taking stock of my life in those moments when I am firmly locked in the present, I am able see new adventures both musical and personal that await and promise to bring much happiness, growth, and fulfillment, and I regard them with excitement and anticipation, reveling in the new-ness and exhilarating unpredictability of it all. The challenge has been keeping my focus pointed both forward and in the present, and not looking backward at what was and is, ultimately, no more. Reading tidbits of wisdom like the one above, it's frustrating to know that such things are easier said than done, and that while there is much to look forward to and enjoy in terms of the incredible possibilities that are in front of me, there is no shortcut around the pathway of grief.

In the meantime, as I am home to celebrate Greek Easter with my family for the first time in almost a decade, I am trying to focus on the parts of the "map of my life" that remain constant and unchanging, grateful for the stability and comfort that they provide.

Handel

250 years ago, my favorite composer both to sing and to listen to died on this day.

Here's one of my favorite pieces that he wrote:




Tributes and news stories here, here, here, and here.

The Key of Joy

"For a moment, death let herself go, expanding out as far as the walls, filling that whole room and flowing into the room next door, where a part of her stopped to look at the sheet music open on a chair, it was suite number six opus one thousand and twelve in d major by johann sebastian bach, composed in köthen, and she didn't need to read music to be able to know that it had been written, like beethoven's ninth symphony, in the key of joy, of unity between men, of friendship and of love. Then something extraordinary happened, something unimaginable, death fell to her knees, for she had a body now, which is why she had knees and legs and feet and arms and hands, and a face which she covered with her hands, and shoulders, which, for some reason, were shaking, she can't be crying, you can't expect that from someone who, wherever she goes, has always left a trail of tears behind her, without one of those tears shed being hers."

- Death with Interruptions, Jose Saramago

I've always loved D major (so clean, simple, and bright with its two sharps), but reading this last night made me feel like I've been taking it for granted all these years.

Rat Race

On my way to my lesson today, I descended down into the bowels of the 96^th street subway station hoping that a downtown train would come quickly and whisk me away to where I needed to be. I stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down the tunnel to see if a train was nearby, when, through the sound-shield of my ipod, I heard the piercing sound of rats squealing. I looked down into the dirty cesspool of the tracks and saw two rats fighting viciously over a paper cup from McDonald's. They squealed at each other, teeth snapping ferociously, jumping to surprising heights to get out the way of their opponent's biting jaws, all while trying to make off with the used, dirty piece of litter. I puzzled over why they would battle so intensely over what, from my perspective, seemed to be a meaningless scrap of trash. Then I thought, if some other, larger being looked at my life – the battles that I choose to fight, the things that I think are important to me that I choose to worry and fret about – would they be just as baffled?

Spring Cheer

Yesterday, I woke, as I usually do, swimming out of a dream. In this particular dream, I was accidentally mooning the Queen of England on a state visit to Chicago, because I was lost running around with my pants falling down in the hotel where she was staying. One minute I was struggling to pull up my britches in a red-carpeted hallway in some Magritte-esque version of Chicago, the next I was conscious, lying in a foreign bed, my eyes taking in the grey light of the morning that streamed between the slats of the blinds in the bedroom where I was staying in the reality of Washington, DC. The slapstick cheer of my dream melted away into the dreariness of reality.

A short while later, while I was on a damp and muddy run through Glover Park, I noticed the dead-brown leaves covering the forest floor giving way to the multitude of tiny bright-green plants that were springing back to life and creating a new carpet on the ground. Looking up, I saw the wintry, skeletons of the trees slowly being taken over by white and pink flowers and yellow-green buds. All signs that spring is awakening. Letting go of my sense of dread at the prospect of yet another grey day, I splashed happily through the mud and puddles of what were April's first showers.

Handel's L'Allegro ed il Penseroso – the reason I am here in DC this week – abruptly begins with the tenor standing up and singing, "Hence, loathed Melancholy!" Being from Michigan, and having grown up with countless, sunless, cloud-ceilinged, dreary winters, I tend to associate grey days and Winter with doldrums and, well, melancholy. Seeing all of the new or resurrected life bursting forth brought me new subtext for my opening lines tonight – Hence, loathed winter and in with spring!

The Welcoming Neighbor

Before heading back to my apartment on Sunday after returning from Boston, I trekked up ten blocks to a close friend's house for a quick dinner so I could catch her and her adorable one-and-a-half year-old daughter before it was the little girl's bedtime. Leaving her apartment and beginning the walk back to my place with my suitcase, I noticed that it had started to rain again. Not quite a downpour, yet certainly more than drizzle. A healthy spring shower.

I debated catching a cab for the ten block journey, but decided against it. It's not too long of a walk, and I thought that I could make it without getting too drenched. I was mistaken. About half-way home, the shower picked up and became a heavier rainfall, big drops soaking my suitcase and blurring the lenses of my glasses. My leisurely walk turned into a wet slog, and I began to grumble. Too close for a taxi, I began to resent the wet chill that was seeping into my bones, and the seemingly endless number of grey days of the past few weeks. Not looking forward to coming home to an empty apartment, I groaned inwardly and quickened my pace.

Once in my building's lobby, I stood, dripping water onto the terrazzo floor, waiting for the elevator. As soon as the door started to open, I nearly bowled over the kind, older gentleman who is my neighbor that lives across the hall from me. I looked at him apologetically, and said, "I'm so sorry, Mr. K!"

"That's ok, young sir!" he said.

"Have a good evening, Mr. K," I said.

He looked at me and replied, "You, as well. Keep making beautiful music. I wish you well!"

I smiled as the elevator door closed, and the elevator lifted me home.

Twittering Bach

In an effort to find yet another way to procrastinate and putter away all my time, I have joined Twitter. While I am still trying to figure it out, I am beginning to find a use for it, and it is starting to serve as a place for me to start fleshing out ideas for this blog. I am hoping that it will help me post on here a bit more regularly. You can follow my tweets here.

While preparing for this St. John Passion that performs here in Boston tonight, I experienced a lot of the usual stress and frustration that learning Bach entails. I always come to a fresh Bach score cockily expecting it to be easy to learn, and I am always surprised and confounded by how tricky his music is with its unexpected and oddly kinky harmonic twists and turns. His music, drenched in faith and humility, requires those same attributes from those of us who perform it. That is probably why I find Bach more rewarding to perform than any other composer. In a way, it is the ultimate heilige Kunst, musically speaking.

This being my very first performance as the Evangelist and having lost some preparation time because of the unexpected concerts I had a couple of weeks ago, I felt a greater amount of anxiety wood-shedding it at the piano than I previously have experienced. In an effort to distract myself from the stress, I found myself turning Facebook to procrastinate – often putting whiny statements about the Bach up as my status. Before I knew it, people were posting comments on my status updates offering support, humor, wit, and perspective. Quite unexpectedly, a website that I generally view as time-sucking exercise had suddenly turned into a community that I could turn to for artistic support.

Part of the my nervousness about this St. John, aside from it being my first one and having to learn it under a bit of a time crunch, was because I was preparing it on my own, trying to be both continuo and Evangelist all at once. Arriving in Boston and meeting with the continuo players and the conductor brought huge relief, as it felt so much easier to finally be playing with others, especially with colleagues as good as these. As it turns out, my continuo colleagues are St. John novices, as well, so it has been a real treat to discover the piece for the first time together and figure out the intricacies of how we are going to tell the story. What has been especially wonderful about these rehearsals is how deeply each and every person involved is invested in the piece. The choir has been preparing for this for months, and the orchestra is really committed to every detail of telling the story and the music, as well. It's been a really special few days, and I'm really looking forward to our performance tonight.

All the best to my colleagues here in Boston for a great performance, and many thanks for an incredible couple of days of music-making and story-telling.

Chores

Simply staring at the pile of mail that needs to be sifted through on top of my piano, the stack of 1099 forms that remind me daily that tax season is nigh, the layer of dust that is covering my shelves in the bedroom that begs to be swiffered away, the cart full of clothes that need to be taken to the Salvation Army, and the multitude of other mundane chores that awaited my return home inspires an incredible feeling of fatigue. Feeling much too grand to deal with these things the week after my whirlwind tour of the United States a couple of weeks ago, I have let them stare back at me and nag at my consciousness. Of course, avoiding them has contributed to my sense of imbalance as of late, and I find that aside from practicing a lot simply out of necessity, I've not been able to get a lot of my to-do list accomplished. It's put me in a bit of a little funk the past few days.

The last tour of hopping from concert to concert was a really exciting moment in my career. In a way, after it was over, I really felt like I had taken a huge step towards a new level both artistically and professionally. For the first few days after Carnegie, I felt proud and happy of all that I had accomplished and really wanted to rest, relax, and bask in that feeling of success. But relaxation has given way to restlessness, and the simple things that all people need to take care of are not-so-subtly pulling me back into my routine again. The world keeps going moving on, and I have to keep up with it and find my back into the flow of it all.

Unexpected Steps Forward

Spring seems to have made its first appearance here in the past couple of days, and the warmer weather has encouraged me to emerge from my hibernating state after my multi-stop jaunt across the country a couple of weeks ago.

My tour of the country culminated with a concert in Carnegie Hall with the Chicago Symphony of the program that we performed in Chicago the weekend before. After the concert ended, I immediately went into vacation-mode for approximately 24 hours. At the end of the next day, I realized abruptly that I actually was not able to remain on vacation mode and that I needed to park myself at my piano and pound notes into my throat for the next two concerts I have coming up.

The catch has been that I picked up a little sinus infection after the Friday concert in Chicago, and while that hasn't affected my singing at all, it did stop up my left ear, and my hearing has been distorted since then. Under normal circumstances, I probably would make use of the time off to simply rest and recover, but I've had to chain myself to the practice room these past ten days, since I want to have these next two programs learned in time.

The oddest thing has been that even though I would think that my lessons would be fruitless and frustrating because of my being a bit sick, my blocked hearing has forced me to get out of my own way in my sessions with my teacher. I marvel at how the effort I normally put into mastering my technique can get in the way of achieving my goal. Having to let go because I can't trust my own ears right now, in these last few lessons, I've actually made some of the greatest strides forward that I've made in a while. Something that seemed initially to be an obstacle has instead become a stepping stone.

Heroes

This past weekend, I sang at a fundraising gala for the Napa Valley Youth Symphony. As I walked out on stage to sing the final number of the evening, I looked back at the children and teenagers of the youth orchestra that crowded the stage, their instruments poised to play the first notes of Make Our Garden Grow from Leonard Bernstein's Candide. One young man, who could not have been older than 8, was too little to sit, and therefore was standing next to his stand-partner. His bow, marked with a little piece of yellow tape to show its center much like my first violin bow had been, was set and ready to play the first chord. Looking back at those kids, I was reminded of my own youth orchestra days - days that I have been thinking about a lot this week since I left Napa.

My very first summer at Interlochen, just after finishing the 8^th grade, our orchestra played, among other things, excerpts from Stravinsky's Firebird. It was my first taste of Stravinsky's music, and I found myself transfixed. When I returned home to Ann Arbor after camp was over, I rummaged through my father's collection of recordings to see if he owned a recording of the complete piece. What I found was a recording with a flashy, red, yellow, and blue cover of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra with Pierre Boulez conducting. A few years later, my youth orchestra in Detroit was tackling Bartók's Concerto for Orchestra, and as I struggled to understand the piece, I looked for a recording to put my confusing second violin part into some sort of context as I studied it. I wrestled so diligently with that piece that I moved up 10 chairs from the back of the second violin section all the way up to the front when it came time for challenges that semester. The recording I turned to was also conducted by Maestro Boulez and the CSO. Just a couple of years ago, long after I had given up the violin and was singing professionally, I turned yet again to an album recorded buy the same forces as I was trying to make sense of Bartók's Cantata Profana when I performed it a couple of years ago with the St. Louis Symphony. Throughout every phase of my musical life, I have always looked to the recordings of Maestro Boulez and the CSO when it came to understanding music composed last century.

Today, sitting in my chair on stage at Symphony Center here in Chicago during our afternoon rehearsal, I looked up from my Pulcinella score at Maestro Boulez beating time with his hands and marveled that I was here actually making music with these people who, whether they know it or not, have taught me so much about music. For those parts of the rehearsal that I wasn't singing, I found it very hard not to stare star-struck and gape in awe that I am actually here this week.

Mistakes

In one of the elementary school music rooms that Lydia and I performed outreach programs in last week, there was a poster on the wall that colorfully displayed the following:

"It's ok to make a mistake when you've tried -.
It's a mistake not to try."

Coincidentally or not, just a day earlier, I read the following:

"If God is all powerful, and I believe that God is, then there is no such thing as an irreparable mistake."

-Julia Cameron, Finding Water

I'm still trying to let that all sink in.

Reaching Out

I looked at the clock that was encased in metal grating to protect it from any number of disastrous possibilities and took note of the time. 9:35 am. I groaned inwardly at the uncouthness of the hour and took in my first breath to sing, hoping that whatever came out wouldn't sound too ugly. I looked at the army of 85 five-year-olds sitting cross-legged on the gymnasium floor in front of me and ceased to care about my sound. The only important thing at that point was to try to keep their attention for the next 25 minutes.

Some of them started to sway to the music. Some just stared, entranced and fascinated. Some covered their ears with their hands, whispering too each other, "He's so loud!". Some squirmed. One boy started air-drumming. A couple others raised their hands, trying to signal that they had heard something I had asked them to listen for.

After we finished the song, we took comments and questions. Some quotes from the peanut gallery:

"You made me sad three times – my ears hurt."

"You're pretty good."

"I play the violin!"

"You're not in the Choristers!"

"Take it easy, Ruth!"

"But they're NOT in the Choristers!"

"I think that the Knight got away from the witch!"

"I think that the Knight died."

"I think that the Knight and the Witch lived happily ever after."

"How old are you?"

"My mom just turned 30!"

"Are you famous?"

"Are you rich?"

"I forgot."

"Did you have to sing that song in English?"

"Do you like to sing?"

After our last song, the school principal thanked Lydia and I for coming to perform, the kids and their teachers applauded, and the teachers tried to round up their students and file them out of the gym back to their homerooms in as orderly a fashion as possible. In the midst of all the ruckus, one little girl came up to me and said, "I'm gonna give you a hug, because you were really good." She gave me a big hug, and ran off to catch up with her fellow classmates as they headed off to the next new experience.

Small World

On Valentine's Day, I was pacing around my dressing room, cramming as much German into my mouth as possible, when Bob, the keyboardist for the Orchestra of St. Luke's, burst into my dressing room a flurry of energy and said, "Hey, Nick! It's great to see you! How've you been? Let's go through these recits…" He promptly sat down at the upright piano in my dressing room and started flipping through his score to find my first recitative. Before that, my conductor friend, Scott, had come down to see if I wanted to run anything before the concert with piano, which I did since I was so nervous. And then, right before the chorus was to go on stage, another friend of mine who happened to be in the chorus and was also named Scott came by to give me a big hug and wish me luck. Later, as the first half ended and we took some bows, I heard the cellist sitting behind me say, "Hi Nick! It's nice to see you…" I turned around and it was Myron, a colleague with whom I had given a concert of Purcell songs (along with Bob) 2 years ago. I smiled as he said, "Long time no see!" James Roe, who organized and played on that Purcell concert two years ago, was playing oboe in the Orchestra that night, as well, and during the intermission he stopped by and gave me a big hug.

When I arrived in St. Paul a few days later, I walked into the rehearsal room and saw a good friend from Marlboro, Maiya, sitting in her new position in the Viola section of the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. Before rehearsal began, we sat down and chatted, making plans to have a drink after the first concert. Later that evening, when the Chorus arrived to rehearse their numbers, I looked up and saw Eugene, a friend from my University of Michigan days who now teaches at Macalester College, singing with the basses and a colleague, Nicole, from my days at Manhattan School of music singing with the sopranos.

Last week was an incredible journey filled with unexpected excitement and the discovery that I am capable of so much more than I ever thought possible. Because much of the excitement happened on the road, and because the concert at Carnegie happened at such short notice, when almost everyone important in my life was out of town or had other Valentine's Day plans, I couldn't help but feel a bit lonely when someone came by to ask if I had anyone for the backstage list that night and I answered, "No". But as the Carnegie evening and the week in St. Paul progressed, I realized how wonderfully close-knit our musical community can be. While there can be all of the drama and nasty competition that people think is there, there is also an incredible sense of camaraderie and support. People from almost every stage of my life popped up this week, and I came to the realization that through music, I am blessed with more friends than I ever imagined possible and am never really alone.

Change in Plans

After Saturday's impromptu Creation at Carnegie, I went for a drink to celebrate with Scott (with whom I would never have been able to do anything musically useful that night), a friend of Scott's who came to the concert, and my manager and her husband. As we were rehashing the excitement of the evening, I said, "I love the piece so much – now I just want to do it again!"

"Be careful what you wish for, my dear…" my manager said.

Prescient words, indeed.

On Sunday, after brunch with friends and drinks with a friend and mentor from Houston, I went home and packed my carry-on bag for a trip to Montana, where I was planning on rehearsing with my friend Lydia, who is to play my recital in Oberlin next week. She lives out there with her husband, who teaches at the University there. I was excited to get out of the city for a couple of days to visit with them and have a peaceful and beautiful place to revisit the recital program that had consumed my musical January. My plan was to stay out there until Thursday, and then come home to finish cleaning my apartment, host one of my best friends who is visiting the city this weekend, and repack my bags for a two week trip that had me hopping around the country from Oberlin, Ohio my recital to Napa Valley for a fundraising gala to Chicago to sing with the Symphony there.

I had an early flight on Monday, so I woke up at an ungodly hour and headed to Newark, checked in, went through the hassle of airport security, grabbed a bite to eat (it's a pretty dire situation at the Northwest terminal in Newark, I'll have you know), and then noticed that the first leg of my flight was delayed half an hour for a mandatory crew break. I went to the gate agent and asked if I would make my connection in Minneapolis, and he told me most likely not. I would miss my second flight, and the next flight leaving for Montana would leave at 9:30pm. I asked him if there was any other way for me to get to Montana at a decent hour, and he kindly rebooked on a United flight through Denver. This meant I had to change terminals and go through security again, but it meant that I would land in Montana only a couple of hours late, as opposed to losing an entire day in Minneapolis.

When I landed in Denver, I turned my phone on and saw that I had 5 voice mails. This does not bode well, I thought. One of them was from my manager, who asked me to call as soon as I could. The tenor colleague who has cancelled on Saturday was still ill, and had to cancel a run of The Creation (in English, this time) with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra – would I be able to adjust my travel plans and do this? One really should be careful for what one wishes for, I thought. I also felt bad for my ailing colleague who had to cancel two of these now – being sick is a real drain when you are a singer.

Needless to say, of course I was happy to do it and adjust accordingly. So, I talked with Lydia and we adjusted our rehearsal schedule so we could get what needed to get done in two days instead of three, and I came here to St. Paul on Wednesday for a day of rehearsals, which, after last weekend, felt luxurious.

My couple of days here have been fantastic – my colleagues are brilliant singers and a conductor whose music-making I have admired from their recordings that I have collected over the years, and they sound wonderful. The orchestra is incredible, as is the choir – and I am getting to experience this incredible music for yet one more week. It's a real treat, and I am enjoying every minute of it. My dream come true is being prolonged, and I am relishing every second that it lasts.

The only catch – I'm on the road for 3 weeks now, and I've only got a suitcase with 3 days worth of clothes…

The Work

Yankeediva posted this video earlier in the week.

It made me think of this little tidbit:

"The best things are nearest: breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of God just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life"

- Robert Louis Stevenson

Watch it - it's long, but carve out the 20 minutes for yourself. It's worth it.

Einspringen or Jumping In

Each morning, I have a routine that I follow pretty religiously. After I wake up, I reach for my journal, write my morning pages and then turn on my computer and check my email. Every day, there are four emails that I can count on to be waiting for me in my inbox in the morning: the headlines from the New York Times and the Washington Post, a daily account summary from my bank with my balance, and my horoscope. Yesterday, not having slept well the night before, I wrote in my morning pages how good it was that I didn't have to sing anything important since I was so tired. I turned on my computer and looked at my horoscope, which read:

"Don't be too controlling right now. The events of the day could proceed at a rapid pace, and you might not be able to exert much influence over them…Even if you want to accomplish a dozen tasks, try to adopt a more flexible attitude about the day."

I sort of thought to myself that it was kind of a boring horoscope and proceeded to get ready for the day. All I had planned was a short rehearsal down at Carnegie Hall with a conductor friend, Scott, for an upcoming St. John Passion that we are doing next month with his choir in Boston, burgers and beer with my voice teacher, and then a play-date with my good friend Jen and her baby, Sophie. Hopping in the shower, I found myself wishing that I could just crawl back into bed and take a nap instead of going to meet Scott, who was in town this week to participate in the Carnegie Hall Choral Workshop and sing in the chorus of Haydn's The Creation with Helmuth Rilling and the Orchestra of St. Luke's yesterday at Carnegie. As I was stepping out the door to go to Carnegie, my manager called.

"Nicholas, sweetie darling – well, first of all, how are you?" She said.

"I'm doing ok, how are you?"

"I'm fine – now more importantly, where are you?"

"I'm in my apartment, why? What's going on?"

"Well, the tenor who is to sing tonight's performance of The Creation is apparently not feeling well and is at the doctor now – I've been asked if you have performed the piece and might be willing to step in, in the event that he needs to cancel?"

My day had suddenly begun to move at a "rapid pace".

On the phone with my manager, I was paralyzed for about a minute, unsure of how to proceed. I wanted to help out – the piece is one of the greatest pieces of music written, and to be able to do it in Carnegie Hall with such a great conductor and colleagues would be a dream come true. The catch was I had only performed the piece in English – and they were doing it in German. Did I think that I could stand on the stage of Carnegie Hall and perform this bear of a piece (for the first time auf Deutsch) with such outstanding colleagues and with no rehearsal? As calmly as I could, I asked my manager to tell the people at Carnegie that I would think about it, but that I needed to look at a score to see if it would be possible.

I headed down to Carnegie and met Scott at the stage door and asked to peek at his score for yesterday's performance – instead of looking at the St. John that we were supposed to be rehearsing, we ended up trying to assess if it would be possible for me to sing The Creation, if I had to. After a lot of encouragement from Scott and going through the score with him, I thought to myself, I could, if it came to it. From there – the day turned into a bit of a blur. Unfortunately, the tenor did end up cancelling because he didn't feel well. I ended up singing the entire piece for Maestro Rilling in his dressing room with Scott at the piano, and he then gave his approval for me to go on. Before I knew it, I was running home to grab a bite to eat, study my score, cram as much German into my mouth as possible, and put on my tuxedo.

Once it was established that I was going to perform yesterday, my focus took over and kept me relatively calm until I walked out onstage, bowed with my colleagues, and sat down. As the orchestra started to play the first, sustained c natural that begins the piece, my mind started to wander just a bit. I thought, exactly how long has it been since I have sung this piece? I quickly did the math and realized that it had been seven years. By the sixth measure of the introduction, the insanity of what I had volunteered to do dawned on me. Looking at the audience, I thought, what am I doing? How am I going to do this? It was then that I realized that it was too late for that train of thought, and that I simply had to buckle down, focus, and give this everything that I had. The chorus sang their first entrance, the orchestra played a very loud C major chord behind me, I stood up, a chill went down my back, and I began to sing as if my life depended on it. Once the first note was out of my mouth, I noticed something else – I was actually having fun.

Under so much pressure, I would have thought the concert would have passed by in a complete blur, but it was quite the opposite. My focus was so intense that each moment of the performance is burned into my memory vividly. It was an incredible experience to make music so spontaneously with such phenomenal musical colleagues in a performance. The most incredible moment for me was standing during my favorite part of the piece – Haydn's musical depiction of the very first sunrise. As the orchestra slowly and majestically let their musical sun rise behind me, I felt my skin tingle as I looked out into the Hall, my eyes watering just a little. As I wove my phrases of recitative in between their orchestral interludes, I marveled that I was singing some of the most beautiful music ever written with some of my musical heroes in one of the most exquisite halls in the world. I was acutely aware that I was experiencing a dream come true.

The Drawing Board

Last Friday, Myra and I traipsed out on stage, and our program (minus the few little moments of unanticipated excitement that are the "magic" of live performance) flowed easily and naturally – our music-making pliable, in the moment, and fun. Having a couple of performances under our belts at that point, our knowledge and command of the program was such that we were able to bend and shape things according to each nuance of storytelling that wanted to express in the moment, making us feel like we were doing our best to serve the muses of music and drama. After the concert, we headed back over to the Upper West Side to celebrate with drinks and food, and then I took the rest of the weekend to relax and enjoy what felt like a successful month of recitals.

Tuesday arrived, and I looked at the calendar and noticed all of my upcoming projects that had been sitting on the backburner these past two months as I focused to try to get through the chaotic hell of the holidays, the turning of the new leaf that was my 30^th birthday, and the intense period of preparation for these recitals. I headed off to a voice lesson Tuesday evening, and started to work on some Stravinsky and some Britten. The phrases felt uncoordinated and unrefined, the words felt clumsy in my mouth, and I found that I was often unsure of where I wanted things to go. There was a fair amount of stopping and starting as we woodshed, and the progress we made was slow and arduous. It felt like I was a toddler taking my very first steps all over again. I looked back on all the hard work I had done for the past two and a half months on the recital program, and realized that I took it for granted. I saw that I was expecting the same artistic command to just be there with this newer music that I was only starting to tackle. Walking to dinner afterward, I tried to let go of my impatience and frustration and sought the grace to be a beginner again with each step through the snowy streets of Manhattan.

The Final Sigh

"Time past can never come again."

- Olinda in the Shades Unseen, Anonymous

"Let not youth fly away without contenting, Age will come time enough for your repenting."

- How blest are Shepherds, from King Arthur, John Dryden

Winter Words ends with the anguished cries of "E'er nescience shall be reaffirmed, How long?" – how long until we return to that blissful, pure ignorant oblivion of innocence? How long until we die?

How to answer that question?

Musically speaking, the obvious choice of an answer was to return to a musical nescience of some sort. I wondered for awhile about programming some folksongs – music in one of it's most pure, unadulterated forms. Instead, though, I chose to look at Purcell – the inspiration and musical nescience for a lot of Britten's vocal writing. In the three songs of Purcell that I chose, I found not only a musical response to the experience of Winter Words, but also an answer to Hardy's tortured and impatient question, how long? It turns out, all too soon.

We traverse our paths through life, stumbling, taking seemingly wrong turns, and feeling lost along the way. Yet, as Olinda discovers in her shades unseen, time past can never come again, and we, as the shepherd from King Arthur implores us, must not let our precious time on this beautiful planet pass without enjoying every moment of it.

Someone told me last night that I think too much, and they are right. After a recent performance of the Evening Hymn, the presenter asked me if I felt like it was a bit of an autobiographical performance. I wasn't sure what to say then, but now I can see that it is, in a way. What is so special and personal to me about this program is that I do think a lot on my life and loves, my stumbles and my mistakes, my joys and my pains – at times, too much so. I look at people who seem to know how to be happy, without cares, and with seeming innocence with a touch of envy in my heart that wonders, "what is their secret?" As I've discovered lately, it's enjoying the moment at hand and gratitude.

The Evening Hymn comes as the final sigh of the program. It's a look at all that is great and beautiful, all the blessings in our lives - those things that are the overwhelming evidence that we are constantly surrounded by some sort of higher power - and gives profound thanks. No matter the circumstance, there are always silver linings to the every cloud, and all that we really need, we already have – if not in surplus. No matter how imperfect we are, we are deserving of that bounty, and that is a truly humbling and deeply happy thought.

The Bite of Experience

When I set about programming these recitals, the only thing that I was sure of was that I wanted to explore Winter Words again. The question then became where to go from there? The answer came in the final song of Britten's cycle, Thomas Hardy asks, " 'Ere nescience shall be reaffirmed – how long?" That idea of the cycle of life really struck me – we begin our lives in a state of innocent, naïve, vulnerable, and blissful ignorance only to have that clean slate marred by the grit, pain, and emotional chaos of experience. Life continues on, each experience carrying us forward to the next step on our circuitous paths, much like a never ending spiral. When it seemingly ends, the cycle begins completely anew – or so we assume, as none of us living really know what lies beyond that final step that is death.

In each of the songs in the cycle, in one way or another, that dichotomy of innocence versus experience is explored, with increasing intensity as the cycle progresses. There is a keen awareness in each of the songs of the transitory nature of uncorrupted innocence, oftentimes with the narrator focusing on the children or a child that is blissfully unaware of the growing pains that are to come. Somehow, I hear a sense of envy – sometimes slight, other times overt – in these observations that feel like one is looking back at times. It is a kind of coveting of happiness and bliss lost through mistakes and discoveries made, that becomes most present in the last, anguished cries of "How long? How long?" in the final song.

Views

The view from my apartment window in Chicago last week. It was so cold that the lake was steaming.

On our way to the recital, merely blocks away from the hall, we were stopped at a traffic light, when Myra looked to the right and pointed out that I had apparently opened up a new restaurant on the South Side of Chicago.

Chicago

Yesterday evening, Myra and I walked out onto the stage of Mandel Hall at the University of Chicago, and performed our first performance of this program that we have been working so hard on since Thanksgiving. It was the first time we had a public to formally witness the flow of the program, and it was quite the fun adventure. From the moment we blasted off with our first Handel aria until the Hallelujahs of Purcell's Evening Hymn, we explored the experiences of life – it's ups and downs, some of the joys and some of the pain. It was a real challenge to put all of this raw emotion out in front of an audience and have the courage to be vulnerable, but I think we both succeeded. The audience seemed to really enjoy themselves, many smiles in the hall after we were done. The recital flew by, and before we knew it, we were having fun singing a couple of encores and then on our way to celebrate at a restaurant nearby. Many, many thanks to the wonderful people at the University of Chicago Presents, who were the most gracious hosts, and who were so generous to grant us this all-too-rare and treasured opportunity to perform a recital on their prestigious series.

The Heart Breaks

Someone was talking to me about breaking up the other day, and discussing how it is a loss that must be grieved when a relationship ends. They went on to discuss the five stages of grief that we experience, sometimes all at once: denial, bargaining, anger, depression, and acceptance. Working on Liederkreis Op. 24 lately, I have been able to see exactly how the heartbroken protagonist of the cycle experiences each stage painfully and traumatically. In the context of our recital program, it is as if the love who had captured his heart in the Fauré songs has spurned him, leaving him to grapple with that rejection and loss. In the first song, he hopes against hope for a glimpse of his love, endlessly frustrated that she won't see him. In the second, he excitedly awaits the meeting with his love that he has been longing for, although it apparently does not go well, as in the third song, he is destroyed by everything he sees around him, as it reminds him of what he has lost. He begs for death in the fourth song to end his pain, and resolves to leave his home, where he first met his love, in the fifth. In six, as he flags down the sailor to take him away, his anger consumes him and he blames his love for his burning pain. In the seventh, as he sails away, he tries to take in the beauty of his surroundings, but still the bitterness and hurt inside his heart remains. In the eighth and ninth songs, he finally accepts what has happened, and attempts to put it all behind him, hopeful for a kind of reconciliation one day.

A friend pointed out to me the other day that pain and hurt are inevitably part of what comes with the experience of falling in love, and that we must know that going in. Somehow, that knowledge never prepares us for the blinding anguish that we suffer when our heart is broken, and something that we innocently hoped would continue to bring us joy and happiness forever suddenly disappears, leaving us bereft.

Love’s Youth

Here is one of the gems that have popped out at me while rehearsing the Fauré set these past couple of weeks :

"Le jour qui luit est le meilleur;" – Lydia, Leconte de Lisle

The day that dawns is the best one.

If only we could think that way all the time, right? How happy we would always be…

We all have many experiences that lead us away from our innocence – it seemed to make sense to begin an exploration of experience in the recital program with the experience of love, that experience that has proven to be a seemingly endless source for the inspiration of all kinds of artistic forms of expression. The beginnings of love are so amazing and mind-blowing. The person who has become the apple of our eye is like a drug that we can't seem to get enough of – it is impossible for that initial desire to be sated. Everything about the other person is enjoyable, and our heart seems determined to open itself to experiencing them regardless of circumstance or reciprocal desire. Such unabashed enthusiasm always feels fresh and new each time I have experienced it, and, in a way, it is different each time. Each time I have fallen in love, it is as if the innocence in my heart cannot help but release itself from the chains of my experienced inhibitions.

I first heard Le plus doux chemin on a recital of French music that I performed at Wolf Trap with Steve Blier. Steve had chosen the song to start off the program and had given it to my dear friend Aaron Judisch. I've been intrigued by the song ever since. It seemed to lead perfectly into Chanson d'amour both in terms of key and text – both songs refer to a "rebellious one", in this case, seemingly an attractive quality. In Le plus doux chemin, the sweetest path is the one that leads to love's doorstep, despite love's rebelliousness. Chanson d'amour is an outpouring of a lover's heart – a list of all the qualities that he cherishes and enjoys in his rebellious lover. Lydia was the very first French song that I ever studied – Fauré quickly became one of my favorite composers after discovering that song. Both Nell and Lydia are passionate dedications of love – the unrestrained pledges of the heart that we innocently and daringly put forth in order to experience one of the greatest joys life's journey has to offer.

Turn

As 2008 turns into 2009, I take a pause from my party preparations to reflect on the moment.

This past year has been one of many moments both trying and rewarding, exciting and tough. As I have gone about my New Year's Eve preparations today, trying to get some work done before the festivities begin, I have traipsed around Manhattan with a lightness in my step and a smile on my face. I look forward to the 2009 with a sense of hope and optimism. On top of all the seemingly positive changes happening in the world-at-large, the knowledge that many changes are to come as I leave my twenties on Saturday and begin a new decade of my life fills me with excitement.

Here's to a wonderful, happy, healthy, fulfilling and fruitful 2009 for all of us.

Happy Holidays

All the best for an joyous and peaceful holiday! Or, as a friend in Houston always says, "Merry Ho Ho!" (yes, that's you, Bonnie Sue!).

The Innocence of Handel

About ten days ago, I sat down after beginning a performance of Messiah, and watched the audience. I had comforted the people and exalted the valleys, so I had a long stretch to enjoy the music and watch the faces in the crowd as they took in their yearly tradition of Hallelujahs. Some people obviously had experienced the piece numerous times, mouthing the words to their favorite choruses and swaying along with the music of their favorite arias, looks of happy expectation and excitement on their faces. There were also those clearly experiencing the piece for the first time – the most notable of which was an 8 or 9 year old, red-headed boy in the front row, looking at times interested in what was going on, and at other times, seeing exactly how far he could stick his tongue out or picking his nose.

Much like I assume it was for that little boy, my first experience with the music of Handel was his famously popular (and sometimes too taken for granted) work, Messiah. My parents took me to the yearly concert at Hill Auditorium in Ann Arbor, which was packed to the brim with families taking in the beginnings of their yearly holiday season traditions. So began my love affair with Handel, who remains my stranded-on-a-desert-island composer to this day. My CD collection has had more works by Handel than any other composer since I began buying CDs, and my iPod's most frequently played playlist is a collection of my favorite Handel arias.

When I began to study singing, one of the very first pieces I was assigned by Rosie was "Where'er you walk" from Semele. It was with this aria that I learned the musical structure of most of the arias Handel wrote, and where I began to learn the improvisational freedom of embellishment. Rosie gave me some ideas with which to start, and I took those and ran – inventing slightly new variations each time I sang the piece. The piece actually won me my very first vocal competition, which named me the best high school age singer in the State of Michigan in 1996 and afforded me my very first chance to sing with an orchestra.

I first became acquainted with "Enjoy the Sweet Elysian Grove" when I was studying at Manhattan School of Music. A friend of mine who put on interesting concerts from time to time asked me to sing the one short tenor aria in Handel's The Choice of Hercules. While the complete aria had been written as part of the incidental music for a production of what was to be Tobias Smollett's Alceste at Covent Garden, the play was cancelled and never performed. Handel took the never-performed A section of "Enjoy the Sweet Elysian Grove" and used it again in The Choice of Hercules, where I encountered it for the first time.

The Alceste aria, which invites the listener to enjoy the utopian splendor of Elysium (the place where all souls went to dwell in the afterlife of the Greek and Roman Mythology), is almost a hedonist's anthem. There is nothing to do but enjoy and experience – all is pleasure, and all is blissful, innocent happiness. In the B section, the tenor refers to his listener as an "unpolluted shade" – where else can any journey or story begin but from an unpolluted, clean place? In life, we all start in this place – in a way, many times over – in which we are in a state of blissful ignorance, only to experience something and to learn more about ourselves and the world. This is the part before a layer of the onion is pulled away, inducing the tears that we experience as part of discovering ourselves and our lives.

Removed from its context, "Where'er you walk" seems like a simple prayer for protection from the hurts and growing pains of life and for constant happiness and delight. Even in its context, in which Jupiter seeks to distract Semele from her desire to see him in his true form, a lightning bolt (something that would kill her and which eventually does), these sentiments are layered in – removing it from its context just allows one to focus on the core of what is there. Jupiter seeks to protect her from experience and knowledge that will cause her hurt – a similar sentiment to one that parents feel for their children. As I enter that age in which my circle of friends are beginning to have children, I find myself thinking like thoughts to Jupiter's – may the world bend to your wishes, only show you it's beauty, may it protect you and may happiness always find you. May it not be too painful as you leave the paradise of innocence and gain experience. Thoughts I imagine that red-headed boy's grandparents wish for him on his own life's journey.

The Program or A Life’s Journey

Context is a powerful thing. In opera or even oratorio, the context is clear – one is part of a storyline, character is fairly well defined. In art song, context can be ambiguous. That is what makes it so challenging and, yet, potentially so impactful. The possibilities are seemingly endless, and, as a result, the individuality of a performer's personal emotional stamp on a song can be all the more extraordinary. Also, sometimes pieces in a recital have been removed from their original context, imbuing them with new poignancy not imagined before. Not long ago, I went to a good friend's cabaret show in Midtown Manhattan and heard every single song on his program in a new context – each song had seemed to have new meaning and brought me new perspective as an audience member. It seemed that, in a way, I was hearing each song again for the first time. That night, I felt like our worlds and our goals were not all that different.

Here is the recital tour program:

THE PARADISE OF INNOCENCE – GEORGE F. HANDEL

Enjoy the sweet Elysian Grove from Alceste

Where'er you walk from Semele

LOVE'S YOUTH – GABRIEL FAURÉ

Le plus doux chemin

Chanson d'amour

Lydia

Nell

THE HEART BREAKS – ROBERT SCHUMANN

Liederkreis, Op. 24

Morgens steh' ich auf und frage

Es treibt mich hin

Ich wandelte unter den Bäumen

Lieb' Liebchen

Schöne Wiege

Warte, warte wilder Schiffman

Berg und Burgen schau'n herunter

Anfangs wollt' ich fast verzagen

Mit Myrten und Rosen

– INTERMISSION –

THE BITE OF EXPERIENCE – BENJAMIN BRITTEN

Winter Words, Op. 52

At Day-close in November

Midnight on the Great Western (or the Journeying Boy)

Wagtail and Baby (a Satire)

The little old Table

The Choirmaster's Burial (or The Tenor Man's Story)

Proud Songsters (Thrushes, Finches, and Nightingales)

At the Railway Station, Upway (or the Convict and Boy with the Violin)

Before Life and After

THE FINAL SIGH – HENRY PURCELL

How Blest are Shepherds from King Arthur

Olinda in the Shades Unseen

Evening Hymn

The Recital Adventure

On the 16^th of January, I will commence my very first recital tour in Mandel Hall at the University of Chicago. After my recital in Chicago, I will appear at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and then finish the tour in Oberlin under the auspices of the Marilyn Horne Foundation.

When I began to study singing and started to shift my musical focus away from the violin, opera was largely not what captured my attention musically. At first, I had a brief brush with Musical Theater, but soon after that, it was the early Italian songs that many young voice students are assigned to sing and a lot of art songs. Opera was not much on my mind, and while I knew that I wanted to sing classical music for a living – I really had no idea of what that entailed. All that was important to me was that I had found a way to make music a central part of my life.

Once I settled on my first teacher, Rosemary Russell (who was a professor at the University of Michigan at the time), I applied myself to studying voice with the intensity that I had studied the violin previously. I still played in my youth orchestras and took violin lessons, but I added my solo voice work and a couple of choirs to the mix. In finding Rosie, I had stumbled onto perhaps the biggest blessing in my musical development. I found a voice teacher who saw the innate passion that I had for music and exploited that fire in me to spur me onwards to faster and faster growth. Having started out as an organist herself, she understood my instrumental background and showed me music that met my interests where they were and piqued my curiosity to discover more. As a violinist, my musical upbringing had been Bach and Vivaldi concertos, the symphonies of Mahler, Sibelius and Tchaikovsky, the string quartets of Haydn and Mozart. I didn't have a clue as to who Verdi was. My very first experience with Rossini was playing the second violin in "Una voce poco fà" – I kept getting lost, because it was just not music that made sense to me – it just seemed like an endless series of boom-chick-chicks. Rosie somehow understood this about me and started me off on the songs of Fauré, lieder by Schumann and Schubert, folksongs of Britten, songs by Purcell, Vaughan Williams and Finzi, and Handel arias. She would tell me to buy certain books of songs, and I would bring them to my lessons, where she would meticulously circle all the songs that she thought I should look at as a place to start. I would rush home after each lesson, devour the music as fast as my brain and throat could consume it, and come back the next week with more than we could get through in an hour. Each new song she guided me towards was like a new, shiny gem that entranced me – it was like there was an infinite amount of musical beauty in the world to discover, and I couldn't become familiar with it all fast enough.

The upcoming recitals feel like a bit of a trip to the past for me – preparing for them, I am constantly reminded of the passion for music that she nurtured in me and all the things I learned in those first six years of study with Rosie, who passed away in 2005. I'm also reminded of my many other mentors along the way, as well – but it is Rosie who has been popping up the most these past two weeks as Myra and I have started to dig into this material.

Having picked out the program myself (as with most recitals), I feel a stronger personal connection with this venue of performance and this music than other musical adventures I get to go on. So for the next month and half or so, the blog will mostly be devoted to my thoughts on the recital, the anecdotes that come up, and discussing the program itself. It's mostly what is consuming my thoughts these days, and it will be fun to ramble on about it as I prepare and swim through all of this music in the coming weeks.

Were the World Mine

Run - do not walk - to see this movie. It is charming beyond belief, and made me smile from the my inner core.
I'm not sure how much longer it's running here in New York City, but hopefully long enough for you to go see it.

Transitions

A number of the blogs I follow seem to have gone through some sort of transition over the past months. Posts became less frequent or never appeared at all, burnout seemed to be prevalent, and now these writers seem to have found themselves heading in a new direction or writing with a renewed resolve.

Looking at the course of my own blog over the past months, I've noticed that since my time in San Francisco at the beginning of the summer, the frequency of my entries has dwindled in frequency, sometimes with as much as a month in between posts. Even pictures have been completely absent from my entries lately. To be completely honest, much like those other writers whom I admire and avidly read, I just haven't felt connected to my own blog in the same way as when I started it.

When I started this blog, I had been out on my own, freelancing as a singer for a little less than a year. It was the first time in my life that I was outside of any structured existence, away from any sort of formal training program or apprenticeship. I was working in Europe for the first time in my career and learning how to grapple with the challenges of a musical life on the road. In some ways, I started this literary journey in an attempt to find some answers to the questions I had in life, to find a way to process my experiences, to attempt to feel a little less alone and a little more connected to the world.

Over the past two and half years, I have found many of those answers that I was searching for, and I have processed much of the huge transition that these past three years have been since I finished my formal studies. I've grown comfortable with myself and my nomadic, musical lifestyle, I am beginning to enjoy it, and I have felt myself spiral forward on the coils of both personal and musical progress. And yet, life, like time, has a fluid quality to it – it just incessantly flows forward, and with each answer acquired, more questions arise; with each step forward on the path, more forks in the road appear, and so the journey, the adventure, the discovery continue on.

My friend, Philip, and I were out for drinks one evening at the end of August, discussing various things musical, when he said to me, "Well, what do you want?" I paused, mid-sip, looked at him blankly across the table and found myself not knowing what to say. What I found so challenging about the question was that I suddenly saw that so many of the goals I had worked so hard towards these past couple of years, I had accomplished. Find a manager – check. Get my career going – check. Figure out how to manage life on the road – an ongoing process, but check. Move back North – check. Marry Jeremy – check. Having accomplished so many of my goals, having made the transition from apprentice to artist, having achieved a new rung on the stepladder of maturity, I didn't where to go from there. While I had been thinking that I was settling, I had actually been aimlessly drifting, and I had no idea what was next.

So, inspired, I pondered what I wanted to be next, and I quickly saw that I still have dreams that I want to fulfill and goals that I have yet to achieve. In a couple cases, the goals that I did achieve are not how I imagined they would be, and I need to figure out how to adjust. In order to get to where I am now, I needed to let go of some of my grander fantasies for a while – I needed to put the cart before the horse. But perhaps it's time to think big again and see just how much closer I am to those larger-than-life dreams, and try to find some new intermediary goals to try to accomplish in between.

While I have often wondered why I keep this blog, I always come back to this answer – it brings me happiness. I feel good and virtuous after I've written an entry, and it is rewarding to feel like I have created something. At another point, Philip (my inspirational muse as of late) pointed out to me how charmed the lives that we lead are. "We should enjoy all of this," he said. I am beginning to see that part of the point of this blog is just that. To enjoy my life and the adventurous journey it takes me on.

Prince Charming

This week marks the end of perhaps one of the longest musical gestations of my career.

When I was in high school, just discovering opera and just how cool it can be, the very second opera that I fell in love with was Rossini's telling of Cinderella. It was hearing Cinderella's final aria, Non piú mesta, on an aria disc that I had pilfered from my father's extensive collection that drew me in. I was entranced with the vocal acrobatics and the fun, champagne-like music that radiates joy with every note. I searched harder through my father's recording collection and discovered that he owned the complete opera, and I devoured it as fast as I could. I tried to learn the Prince's aria as best as I could from listening to the cd, not even thinking to look for a score, and sang along as best I could with the recording for days.

My fascination with La Cenerentola fell by the wayside as I started to study voice formally, and I became engrossed in the assignments given to me by my teacher – Handel airs, lieder by Schubert, art songs by Fauré, Finzi, and Vaughan Williams. I didn't think about La Cenerentola until I arrived to begin my interrupted Master's studies at Manhattan School of Music, where Tom Muraco immediately instructed me to learn the Prince's aria after our first coaching together. For my first months in New York, I worked diligently at getting the piece into my voice and used it at my audition for the Houston Grand Opera Studio. Shortly after arriving in Houston, I was offered the opportunity to cover the Prince at the Lyric Opera of Chicago – an opportunity that I would have a little over two years to prepare for. For the next two years, I slowly learned the rest of the score in my spare moments between my assignments at HGO, nervously preparing for a chance that seemed like a dream come true.

My first days at the Lyric, I walked around in a nervous, overwhelmed fog. My colleague who I was understudying fell ill for the first days of rehearsal, and I had the chance to rehearse for those first few days. He recovered, and I enjoyed the rest of my time in Chicago stress-free. A year later, I was offered my first actual performances here in Atlanta. Since then, I have periodically pulled out the aria and sections of the duet to keep it somewhere in my voice, knowing these performances were approaching. My preparation intensified over the summer as I gradually shifted more and more of my focus back to the Prince, and then for last six weeks before rehearsals began, I focused solely on the piece again.

Having studied, practiced, listened to, and thought about this opera for over ten years, Rossini's Prince Charming feels like an old friend even though I am only getting to take him out in front of an audience for the first time this week. The highest compliment my colleagues have given me throughout the rehearsal process is asking me at different times if I've performed this role a lot before. After so much time living with this music, it seems hard to believe that this is a role debut for me. The best part of it is, I've never been able to enjoy taking something so challenging out into public for the first time so much.