The Inner Voice: The Making of a Singer Read online

  Unless someone is universally lauded as the talent of the century at the age of twenty-three and it’s obvious to everyone that she is going straight to the top, what a singer needs more than anything else to get a career going is one brave impresario who is willing to take a chance and put his or her stamp of approval on her. Because it is an impresario’s job to discover talent, it would seem that this should happen regularly, but somehow it doesn’t. What they’re looking for is someone with buzz. Buzz is critical to a young singer’s career, but it always comes down to who is willing to start it. Who wants to risk being wrong? For me, it was David Gockley and Scott Heumann who gave me my first, unequivocal, important vote of confidence. Based on my Houston studio audition, Scott hired me to sing a concert of bel canto scenes in Omaha, Nebraska. A duet from Donizetti’s rare Maria Padilla was so successful that I was hired back to sing the entire opera. This experience solidified my love of the bel canto repertoire, which I would pursue further with Eve Queler in New York. We sadly lost Scott Heumann soon after to AIDS. Speight Jenkins, of the Seattle Opera, was also one of the few impresarios to take a chance on unknowns. Based on our Metropolitan National Council Auditions wins, he brought Susan Graham, Ben Heppner, and me to Seattle for a production of my beloved Rusalka in 1990. If Speight had bet his life savings on those three young singers’ having stellar futures, he probably could have retired. This is the joy of discovering young talent, for the casting directors in whose hands our potential lies, and for the audiences and aficionados alike. For the three of us, it was simply wonderful to have a real live engagement.

  Shortly thereafter, and true to their word, I got a phone call from the people at the Houston Grand Opera saying they’d had a cancellation in the role of the Countess in Le Nozze di Figaro, and could I be ready to sing the part in two weeks? This, I knew, would be the single biggest turning point in my professional career. I threw myself into learning the role, spending hour after hour trying to perfect the pronunciation of each word. The Italian recitatives are among the most difficult aspects of singing a Mozart opera. These declamatory sections, accompanied by harpsichord and cello alone, which are half-sung, half-spoken dialogue between the arias, move the story forward and require an exhaustive understanding of the language. It was a huge amount of work, but I loved it and felt as if I were in school again. Finally, I wasn’t trying out for the part; I had the part, and now I could settle down into the work of it, which was the place I felt most comfortable.

  Houston was presenting Göran Järvefelt’s Drottningholm production of Figaro, which remains one of my favorites among the many I’ve appeared in. Unlike most productions, which focus on Figaro and Susanna, this one centered on the Countess as its driving force. Small wonder that I found it so appealing. I was onstage with Thomas Allen and Susanne Mentzer, among others. The standards of the cast were so high that it seemed as if I’d moved from the wading pool to the ocean overnight. Tom Allen, especially, is such a brilliant actor that I literally felt as if I were on fire when I had a scene with him. You can study in the classroom forever, but to rehearse on the stage with a great actor is the fastest way to refine your own skills overnight. His delivery of recitative is among the finest and most imaginative I have ever heard. It was Tom who suggested that I might add to my list of positive tasks a change in the way I presented the character, just to keep performances fresh. He made his Count Almaviva a seducer one night and an abuser the next. Just to react to him while staying in character and managing to get through my lines without stumbling took every bit of training, talent, and courage that I had.

  Christoph Eschenbach, the new music director of the Houston Symphony, was also making his operatic debut in Houston conducting our Figaro production. Christoph took me under his wing and worked with me every day, a practice that is, unfortunately, highly unusual in today’s opera houses. Conductors rarely have the time to help young singers now, or the desire to do so. It’s not that they aren’t generous—as a group, conductors, and other musicians tend to be very generous people—but there are simply never enough hours in the day, and the tradition of conductors’ learning their craft as repetiteurs, or musical coaches, in the theater is gone. So when Christoph gave so freely of his time and talent, we formed a deep and lasting bond. He gave me inspiration, which is what great conductors can offer to singers, and in turn, I trusted him. He urged me to push myself to greater heights, to take risks, to sing and express music in ways I wouldn’t have been brave enough to manage on my own.

  This was especially true for my performance of “Dove sono,” the cornerstone of the role of the Countess, and the aria that really launched my career. It was at once my signature piece and my personal cross to bear. It is terrifying because it is so sustained and exposed, and because its tessitura (or median range) lies consistently in the passaggio, which makes it uncomfortable to sing. Add to that the fact that there are virtually no interludes in which to rest muscles that are beginning to tighten, leading to the vocal equivalent of repetitive stress syndrome. Oddly enough, I never had any problems with the Countess’s other great aria, “Porgi amor,” which, though equally exposed, moves more and doesn’t lie quite so unrelentingly in one place. What Christoph had me do with “Dove sono” was to sing the aria slowly, and then sing the repeat, or da capo, even slower and very softly. The risk in that interpretation was that my voice would give way altogether or falter, and I was prolonging the very elements of the aria that intimidated me in the first place. But in singing, as with many things, it’s the risks that always bring about enormous gains.

  The production was a huge success. I was paid approximately $12,000 for the entire run, which was a staggering amount of money considering that $300 a week was the most I’d ever earned before that. I was launched, I was rich, and I was incredibly happy. I went home to New York and made plans to get married.

  Within a couple of months of my moving to New York to study at Juilliard, I had started dating Rick Ross, a young actor working as the orchestra manager on the production staff. But it wasn’t until I moved away to Germany for the Fulbright the following year that we really became close. He wrote me beautiful letters every day, filled with stories and affection. He explained that he wrote to me so often because when he had been in the army stationed in Korea, he hadn’t received much mail from home, and he wanted to make sure I didn’t feel the same isolation.

  Rick was wonderful for me in so many ways, the greatest of which was his unflagging support. I believed in his art, and he believed in mine. I see other women who struggle with their partners’ being envious or wanting them to work less or to stay home more. What Rick gave me was total independence and limitless encouragement to pursue my dreams at full speed, an environment that men have traditionally expected from their partners but which professional women are very fortunate to ever find. Rick never set up any sort of contest between my love for him and my love for my work, but was always there, encouraging me. He understood that I had to travel, just as I understood that he needed to stay in New York and audition. Rick helped my ups and downs by being a sympathetic ear and continually reinforcing the message that I really didn’t need to go through life taking every setback so seriously, which ultimately helped me recuperate from a disappointment or a bad review that much more quickly. He taught me to take a level approach to life and not allow myself to be blown around by my emotions as much. It was also just comforting to have him there. It’s easier to go out on the road when you know someone is waiting for you to come home. Besides, he’s a saint for surviving my most neurotic singing years. Once on a blisteringly hot and humid New York City August night, when the temperature in our tiny railroad flat had probably reached 105 degrees, I leaned over and said, “Honey, could you please turn the fan off? It’s drying my throat.”

  So now, in a matter of months, I had a husband, a manager, and a serious role with a major opera company to my credit. The years of hard work and disappointment were finally bearing rewards.

 
Merle was able to use the success of the engagement in Houston to launch my career, and we ultimately had a very successful six years together. He had tremendous confidence in me, certainly more than I had in myself, and felt that I should simply skip the regional level and sing in major houses. I was still inclined to work my way up through the ranks and learn what I could along the way, convinced that I would gain valuable experience by taking things step by step. Merle, however, would announce, “Let’s have you audition for the Paris Opera!” And I would think, Oh, no, I’m not ready for that. But he believed I was ready for everything and pulled me along accordingly. I also benefited from his representation of Carol Vaness, because I was able to piggyback onto the many Mozart engagements that she was too busy to accept. Carol was in great demand, and companies could occasionally be persuaded to at least consider a newcomer when the star they’d hoped for wasn’t available. Merle gave me the same basic speech he had given her a few years earlier: “You will be fortunate to follow in Carol’s footsteps, just as she followed in Mirella Freni’s footsteps by taking over engagements Mirella wasn’t available to accept.” Merle felt that his responsibility at the time was simply to make it possible for me to make a living singing, so I could hone my skills onstage instead of in a practice room while temping.

  After I auditioned for the Royal Opera in London, a note came back to Merle that said, “We like her very much because she doesn’t sound American.” My Slavic ancestry had proven to be a real benefit because my wide, open face and the color of my voice made me distinctive. Oddly enough, a drama teacher at Potsdam had made a similar observation when I was an undergraduate, remarking, “You’ll look great onstage because you have a big face.” I wasn’t exactly insulted, but I didn’t take it as a compliment, either. I realize now that larger faces do look better from a distance, in the same way that larger people generally look better onstage in period costumes. The Royal Opera’s reaction also made me realize for the first time that my citizenship might prove to be something of a detriment in my career. Americans who want to perform in Europe face a cultural and vocal uphill battle. We’re considered good students, very professional and often technically sound; but though there are droves of us to choose from, a European singer is almost always going to be the first choice of a European company—and often, of an American company as well. That preference is understandable, as singers who are native speakers of the languages operas are composed in sound more natural singing them. Also, at that time Americans were regarded as being somewhat bland and as having voices that often seemed indistinguishable. Once I understood this, I knew I’d simply have to focus harder on languages and to attain fluency in as many as possible.

  My next audition was for Hugues Gall, the intendant of the Geneva Opera. The company had asked for several arias, and so I sang “Dove sono,” Rusalka’s aria, Micaëla’s aria from Carmen, and Pamina’s “Ach, ich fühl’s.” Gall and his artistic administrator sat in the audience and whispered loudly to each other the entire time I sang, which, needless to say, made me wretchedly uncomfortable and convinced me that they weren’t even listening. I kept thinking, They must hate every note of this. At the end of the audition, Gall stood up and asked rather formally, “May I see you in my office, please?” And I thought, Well, at least that’s polite, he’s going to take me aside and thank me for coming all this way and reject me in private. It’s a nice touch. When I went into his office and took a seat, however, he proceeded to offer me five roles. It was the beginning of my European career.

  Hugues Gall has a place in my heart next to Christoph Eschenbach, because they both made a point of looking after my career. With Christoph, it was the repertoire. I debuted my Strauss roles, some Mozart repertoire, and Strauss’s Vier Letzte Lieder with him. Hugues tried to interest other important intendants in me, but often they said, “No, she may be fine for you, but not for our theater.” One of the tremendous satisfactions involved in fostering young talent is that you later can say, “Renée Fleming? Oh, yes, I saw that she was the one right from the start.” In exchange, both men have my undying loyalty.

  One of the many opera houses that was convinced that I wasn’t yet that interesting was the Metropolitan. Even after I’d won the Met competition, Merle was told, “She has pitch problems.” Being considered “special” is a hugely important asset for a singer. A soprano can have a perfect technique, but she has to have something more than that, something ephemeral that makes her voice memorable. I sang at Chautauqua when I was very young, and the soprano Frances Yeend and her husband, the vocal coach Jim Benner, told me then that my voice was unique. They then patiently explained that this was an element that was absolutely necessary for real success. I’m sure the concept went right over my head then. All these years later, that was exactly what I needed my voice to be: an instantly recognizable sound. In the Lyric Opera of Chicago’s opinion, I was “a B singer, not an A singer. Not for this house.” Which is all to say that although I’d had some significant breakthroughs I hadn’t arrived yet. In a way, these rejections were almost more disappointing than those earlier in my career, because now I really did feel that I was doing things right.

  Still, there was plenty to be happy about. Covent Garden cast me as Dircé in the French version of Cherubini’s Médée, and I made my debut in Geneva as Fiordiligi in Così fan tutte. The New York City Opera hired me to sing Mimì in La Bohème, the first of only two times I have performed that role, and I won the Debut Artist of the Year award, sponsored by the generous philanthropists Rita and Herb Gold, who had helped me with a Shoshana Foundation grant earlier at Juilliard. The most important competition win—and vote of confidence—came a year later with the Richard Tucker Prize. At that time it was an award for which one auditioned; today it is bestowed upon a deserving young singer by committee. It carried with it a $25,000 prize, which enabled me to focus entirely on music (and, I hoped, would free me from worrying about how I was going to pay the rent). It also came with a telecast, which introduced me to a much larger public: my real debutante ball. I sang regionally from time to time, but it didn’t always go especially well. Once I got a scathing review after an engagement in California, during which the general director came backstage at intermission and asked me if I was marking (meaning “half-singing” to save my voice). I wasn’t, but clearly I was doing something very wrong. I was probably listening to myself too much or singing in what I thought was a more artistic manner, but whatever the reason, my voice wasn’t projecting that night. I was discouraged by both the response and the review, but when I told the story to Beverley, she just said, “Listen, you have to be more generous with yourself, because even though you’re singing professionally, you’re still learning. You have a lot of ground to cover and you’re going to have to do it on the job with other people scrutinizing you.”

  My Paris Opera debut, in Figaro, was on Christmas Eve in 1990. The gleaming new Opéra Bastille presented another opportunity to sing with an organization that had an illustrious history of presenting great artists and operatic premieres. It was humbling to be there, and in Paris, which I came to adore and now refer to as my second home. I rehearsed the beautiful Giorgio Strehler production until the arrival of Lucia Popp, who was to sing the first five performances, after which I would finish the run. Hers was among the voices I truly loved—pure, spinning, and seemingly effortless—and once again I was privileged to witness a great artist’s generosity. Rather than scrutinizing the competition and behaving accordingly, she immediately invited me to lunch. She spoke of things I honestly couldn’t fathom then, for she was in love and felt that as she had already worked hard and had paid her dues, it was her time to enjoy life and revel in her relationship. I’m sure that as I listened to her I had a look of total incomprehension on my face, since I was at that time so desperate to be where she was, in demand as a great artist and recording star, and I couldn’t imagine wanting to wish that away. I didn’t know then that she was terminally ill, and indeed, I’m not completely sure
that she herself imagined that she would be gone just a few short years later.

  The Metropolitan finally came through with a cover contract for the Countess in 1991. One morning at ten a.m., the word came that I would be going on for an indisposed Felicity Lott, whom I was understudying. It was one of those phone calls, like the one from Erica Gastelli when I got into Juilliard. Rick and I were living in a railroad flat, and I ran up and down the hallway shouting with joy. I made a few calls and tried to pull together all the friends and family I could to be in the audience and share this momentous occasion with me.

  The Met’s Figaro was Jean-Pierre Ponnelle’s 1986 production, already a classic. I remember making my entrance feeling calm and prepared, and within minutes I was joined by Samuel Ramey and Frederica von Stade, two artists for whom I had tremendous admiration and two people I had never actually been introduced to before. And now there I was, singing with them on the stage of the Met! It was one of the many, many times in my life I felt grateful to Mozart.

  I had never chosen to become a Mozart specialist but felt, rather, that Mozart had chosen me. With performances of the Countess, I had already laid a relatively complete foundation for an international operatic career. It was unusual and fortunate that I could achieve it so quickly, for there are many examples of great singers, such as Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, who never appeared at the Met, while very few artists manage to sing in all of these places, preferring instead to focus on only two or three markets. However, as Merle had to remind me, getting hired is easy. Getting hired back is the goal! It was my good fortune that the Countess was so difficult to cast, as the role requires a pure and consistent tone, perfect pitch, style, quality, and nerves of steel, because the singing is so exposed. I was young enough and hungry enough to embrace these opportunities enthusiastically. If someone had laid out all the facts for me before I started, I would have passed on the Countess and been much happier singing Mimì all over the world, as Mimì is an easier role. But the Countess taught me how to sing, and in that respect, Mozart kept me in the role of the good student long after I had left school. By the time I was called upon to make my Met debut, I was as comfortable being the Countess as I was in my own skin.