Stand Up Straight and Sing!

by Jessye Norman

  Still, even though I consider it my craft, my love of singing comes from my understanding that if we are given a talent, it is our duty to explore and cultivate that gift. And I love the depth of meaning, the very soul of the music that I sing. There is this soul in all of it—every note of Schubert’s and every work by Duke Ellington or Thelonious Monk. The list is very long and we are very blessed! . . . A soul, after all, is touched by things that are familiar to it, even when those things are new. Surely, you can feel as overjoyed walking into a Buddhist temple in Japan as sitting in the pews of a Baptist Church in Harlem. They are both places of spirit and worship, and though they touch your heart and mind in different ways, you are still being moved. The same is true if you are listening to a song of Leonard Bernstein or an aria of Mozart. Depending on your own life experience you will be touched in very specific ways. This is why it was possible for me as a youngster to listen to Nat “King” Cole singing “Stardust” and love it, even though I had not lived long enough to understand the twilight of life and love and all those deeper meanings that eventually become clearer with living. I was attracted to the sound, the beauty of his voice, the music, his art.

  The same can be said of music from the classical canon, particularly for people who have never given it a serious try. The sheer depth and breadth of the musical offerings make it possible for anyone to choose that which speaks to them. It need not necessarily be opera; it could be the piano music of Chopin or the string quartets of Beethoven or the symphonies of Mahler. But exposure to these beautiful works makes choice possible. I spend a certain amount of time in helping to make adults who are coming to classical music a bit later in life comfortable and happy. Some who are new to the genre express concern that they will not be able to appreciate songs or opera arias sung in a foreign language or, perhaps more typically, that they need special training in order to understand classical music in general, or they worry about something as unimportant as applauding at the wrong moment. To which I say: Fear no music! Fear no art!

  Growth in one’s craft is essential. Life can be a marvelous teacher—it can tell you so much more about what it is that you, as a singer, are charged with truly offering to your audience. While we can lose the youthful energy and the natural ability to make those twenty turns as a ballerina or sing a very long phrase in one breath, if we are lucky, we gain more courage to take a little bit more time or try a different interpretation of something familiar. These are new ideas that come from living. For me, it is possible to spend a lot of time rehearsing in the studio, but true learning comes from performing—seeing how I need to pace myself now and be at my very best when I reach the most challenging part of a presentation. I have said that I want to keep getting better, and this is certainly my aim. I want to be as good as I can be, always. I want to see and experience the new. I perform a great number of recital programs, for example . . . and I have no idea how many, but it is not and never has been my idea to perform the same programs continually. I enjoy development, growth.

  I am pleased, too, to know that my audiences grow with me. There are music lovers who come to my performances, particularly in France and Germany, who were students, the same age as I, when they first became audience members. Later they came to the performances with their children. And now they come with their grandchildren. For this, and so much, much more, I am grateful.

  Sanctus, St. Cecilia Mass • CHARLES GOUNOD • Holy

  ***

  Sanctus, Sanctus Holy, Holy

  Dominus Deus Sabaoth Lord God of hosts

  Pleni sunt coeli et terra eterna Heaven and Earth are full of

  Gloria tua. Thy Glory.

  Hosanna in excelsis. Hosanna in the highest.

  9

  Woman, Life, Singer

  “RIDE ON, KING JESUS”

  Ride on, King Jesus,

  No man can hinder me.

  For He is King of Kings

  He is Lord of Lords,

  Jesus Christ, the First and Last

  No man works like Him.

  I was but young when I begun,

  But now, the race is almost won.

  King Jesus rides a milk-white horse,

  The river of Jordan He did cross.

  Ride on, King Jesus,

  No man can hinder me.

  In modern usage, the terms diva and prima donna are used interchangeably, and not always as compliments or acknowledgments of special accomplishments. In former times, the labels were unabashedly positive and applied most often to female opera performers. Divas were adored and showered with adulation. Being labeled a prima donna or diva meant something very special: goddess, deity, divine.

  Early patrons of the opera considered the female voice to be something very special, particularly as the era of the castrati, the male singers whose vocal registers were so high as to make them able to sing female roles, was coming to a close. The castrati were the matinee idols of their day, when it was not well thought of to have women in performance onstage.

  I resisted employing the terms diva and prima donna in any way for many years. I agreed finally to focus on their historical meanings when I entitled a series of programs with the music of Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington The Duke and the Diva (and again, later, The Duke, the Diva, and the Dance, when I had the grand pleasure of working with the Trey McIntyre Project at the Vail International Dance Festival in the summer of 2007). I thought that assuming the label would confound those who had so happily assigned it to so many women, surely including myself. A few stories, full of dramatic content, intrigue, and extreme inaccuracies, have served to confuse music fans as well as the general public about the connotations of these terms in my own case.

  I AM HAPPY that it is easy to count the comparatively small number of occasions when, in my decades of performance life, I have had to cancel an appearance. However, I am reminded of one occasion on which a postponement was called for: a series of concerts scheduled to take place in Brazil in 2001, just three weeks after the terrorist attacks of September 11 in the United States. Anxiety soared as the world braced for further attacks, and frankly, I was much more amenable to being with my family and friends at such a worrisome period than I was to traveling far away from both home and the people I loved. I therefore published an open letter to concertgoers in Brazil explaining the necessity of postponing the performances. I could not have been clearer as to my state of mind and promised to reschedule as soon as could be arranged. The message ended with the sentence “I ask your meditations and prayers.”

  It was therefore surprising, to put it mildly, when my brother called just a few days after I had forwarded my letter to Brazil, to tell me of an article that had run in the Detroit Free Press claiming that the reason I would not appear as planned in Brazil was that the hotel in which I was to stay had refused to honor my request that seventeenth-century Japanese prints be placed in my accommodations. Truth to tell, I have to tip my hat to the person who came up with such a creative tale!

  Aside from the fact that no hotel accommodations had even been finalized at the time, a request of this kind would be so “un-Jessye” as to be utterly ridiculous. Still, this story was carried by none other than the Associated Press, and to this day, I have no idea as to its origin.

  The same is true of a fantastic tale surrounding one of my many performances at the Salzburg Festival. It’s a wonderful summer festival and I have probably offered more solo recitals and orchestral and opera presentations there than I have almost anywhere else, over the twenty-five-year period that it has been my joy to perform there. My recitals are very often on Sundays, and I prefer this, so that my most ardent audience members, many of whom are only free from their work on the weekends and can purchase only the tickets with seating far from the stage, or watch the performances outdoors on the large screen at the cathedral square, can actually be present. Performing there for the whole public is my heart’s joy.

  As is my professional habit, I arrived at the hall hours prior to the
performance. I prefer to be in place in good time for my routine: the warming up of my voice, then makeup, hair, and performance dress, all managed without assistance. The performance was scheduled to begin as usual at 8:00 P.M. After I was settled in the dressing room and had begun my vocal warm-up exercises, there was a knock at the door. “Come in, please,” I responded, in a rather high, singsongy voice, as I always do when I am warming up for a performance. The person who entered informed me that, due to the rain in the afternoon, the summer’s stunning production of The Passion Play, which is normally performed outdoors, was in fact still in progress on the stage of the Großes Festspielhaus, the stage for my recital. Because the stage sets would have to be broken down following the conclusion of the play, the recital would need to begin at 9:00 P.M. “Thank you very much,” I replied, adding that with the air being heavy with moisture and a little cool, it was good to have the extra time to warm up slowly and carefully. I asked that my piano accompanist, Geoffrey Parsons, should please be advised of the change once he had arrived. Any string player will tell you how much more difficult it is to tune an instrument in preparation for a performance when there is excess moisture in the air, particularly cool air. For singers, very much the same is true.

  I thought nothing more of the conversation. Geoffrey and I rehearsed on the stage at the appointed time and further readied ourselves for the performance. We had a wonderful time that evening; the audience was marvelous and we were happy. We presented a program of Brahms and Hugo Wolf, some of the core works of the long catalog of German lieder. Afterward, the director of the festival came backstage as he always did, but he looked somewhat uneasy. “I was so pleased that you were able to give us such a performance after having been so very upset,” he said. I asked, “Hans, what do you mean?”

  “I was just so surprised that you were so upset,” he said, “because you, of course, understand The Passion Play and the need to present this indoors when the weather is unfavorable. I remember another occasion when you had to do this.”

  I was now completely confused.

  It turned out that the person who had given me the message about the delay (a personal assistant to one of the conductors) had invented a tale that he passed on to the festival staff. He had relayed that I had “exploded” when he advised me of the delay, that I was absolutely furious and practically “bit his head off.” This of course meant that the whole festival staff had sat in the audience wondering whether my performance would be affected by my reported anger. They could not have known that there was absolutely no reason for concern, as I was completely at ease, oblivious to the tension this storyteller had invented, and had been grateful for the extra time to prepare.

  Who knows why the tale was told. Perhaps it was a case of what psychologists label “projection.” Perhaps this person thought that an outburst, as he chose to describe it, would somehow have been expected, or maybe even acceptable.

  Sold-out performances are practically the norm in Salzburg, as many music enthusiasts from all over the world make a point of visiting this festival every year. It can be great fun just to observe the audience’s attire, which competes most favorably with any Hollywood red carpet.

  A person who might take these habits of the audience members, the full houses, and the enthusiasm for the performances, as having to do only with them, could well assume a degree of unhealthy self-regard.

  We all know that there is no real substitute for honesty and good manners.

  These lessons were not only drummed into my consciousness during my growing-up years, but also demonstrated so very beautifully one fine day in the beginning years of my professional life. I observed my more experienced colleagues arriving early for rehearsals and performances and taking most seriously the obligations of the profession: preparedness, courtesy, respect, and enjoyment of the work.

  The great Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau offered a lesson in amity and professionalism to me on a memorable day in Berlin. It was 1973, and we were to rehearse Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. I was to sing the role of the Countess and he would be my onstage husband, Count Almaviva. Fischer-Dieskau, one of the greatest singers who ever lived—a generous artist, universally admired—walked into the rehearsal room and proceeded to introduce himself, shaking hands with everyone and announcing the role he was to sing, as if we did not know who he was or how thrilled we all were with the opportunity of performing with him. It was, however, the professional and courteous thing to do, and I never forgot it. This is not something that we do as often in the United States, but any musician who has spent time working in Europe knows this to be the habit. To this day, when I arrive at a rehearsal, I walk into the room, say hello, and shake hands with everyone, paying particular attention to those I may not have met previously. It is a fine way to begin a rehearsal and shows we are all colleagues, and that working together, we are more likely to achieve the happy results that we all want.

  This is not easy for everyone. Performers, after all, are a microcosm of society at large. Not everyone shares this desire to create an atmosphere of comfort. And let us not pretend that there is anything “regular” about going onto a stage in a house with hundreds and sometimes thousands of seats, to offer up your craft while interacting with colleagues, the conductor, and the orchestra without so much as a microphone! Oh yes, it is thrilling, this wonderful phenomenon of live performance. The challenges to body and soul are real. I recognize that in certain situations, a degree of anxiety can develop that can cause us to deport ourselves in unusual ways. We all work hard to keep difficult behavior to a minimum.

  On the other hand, there are often honors and distinct recognitions that remind me of how extraordinary a performer’s life can be. This life, precious life.

  Just such a moment arrived for me in the summer of 1988. I was in Paris, only a few days into the recording of Carmen with Seiji Ozawa, when an emissary from the office of President François Mitterrand, Mr. De Pavillion, asked to meet with me. I was, of course, more than a little curious. A time was set aside, the press manager for Philips Records introduced me to Mr. De Pavillion, and we sat for our meeting.

  Mr. De Pavillion and I spoke for a moment or two about my artistic ties to France and how often I perform there, and then he stated his mission: on behalf of President Mitterrand, he was asking me to perform the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” the following summer, on July 14, 1989, for the celebration of the bicentennial of the French Revolution. I was stunned—and a bit confused. After listening a while further to De Pavillion’s plans, I could not wait a second longer before asking, “Is the president of the thought that I come from one of the former French colonies in Africa, or from Martinique, Haiti, or Guadeloupe, perhaps?”

  Mr. De Pavillion broke into a slight smile and said, “I assure you, the president knows that you are American.”

  Still wanting verification, I said something along the lines of, “And I am to sing the anthem alone or with a choir?” to which he responded, “No, you are being asked to sing alone, please. We are considering that this will be performed at the Place de la Concorde, for historical reasons.”

  I stated that it would be my high honor to accept the invitation and that I looked forward to further news of the arrangements as they progressed. Needless to say, I went back to my recording session that day full of beans!

  The following year, the Place de la Concorde was, indeed, chosen as the performance place. The French American Jean-Paul Goude was asked to organize the entire défilé (parade) and I was informed that I would sing live.

  No prerecorded anything; live! Excitement does not begin to describe this moment in time, which was bolstered even further by the news that the great designer Azzedine Alaïa would create the gown that I would wear.

  Working with Azzedine was an experience unto itself. In his atelier, an assistant placed me in muslin from neck to feet, which provided the canvas on which Azzedine would create the gown. He arrived in the fitting room with forty meters of quad
ruple-weight silk in each of the three colors of the tricolore drapeau—the French national flag—which he announced he would pin to the muslin and thereby actually cut the fabric for the gown on me. We had a laugh about this, as Azzedine is not very tall and, in order to accomplish this complicated cutting of the fabric as I stood, he had to use a ladder. What he managed was miraculous: he cut each portion of the three colors asymmetrically so that the fabric of the gown would fall away from my body. I stood there watching this magic in several mirrors, in total wonder. Azzedine joked that he had made sure he would have enough fabric on hand in case the plan that he had in his head did not work and we would be obliged to come up with another idea. Indeed, he cut the three portions of the gown and created the design at the same time. He did this only once. Perfection.

  Further, Azzedine cut the bottom part of the dress, the red part, in such a manner that if there should suddenly be a breeze at the Place de la Concorde while I was singing live with estimated billions watching worldwide, the dress would not be taken up easily by the wind in an unflattering manner. I was amazed that he had even thought of such a thing. He also designed blue see-through gloves for my hands to match the blue of the top part of the gown.

  We agreed that I would wear my own red silk shoes—comfortable feet being an extremely important part of this enterprise. The entire bicentennial experience was, of course, something to remember—always. The gown, the flag, the anthem, the history.