I believe one must be a student of life, that learning and searching should never stop, and that scholarship produces wonderful rewards. I enjoy this perpetual search for information and inspiration and find both everywhere. For example, an Ella Fitzgerald scat might trigger a new way for me to look at a John Cage composition. Or the proper pace of a song by Brahms might reveal itself in the quiet spaces of a staged performance of a Shakespeare soliloquy. Tell the story. Don’t rush. Perhaps the pace needs to be picked up here. It’s a long story—take your time. A wonderful song of Brahms comes to mind: “Von ewiger Liebe” (“Of Eternal Love”). Walking in the darkness, a lover questions the fidelity of the other. Pacing and time are essential.
I enjoy watching stage plays, as the words presented are neither confined nor supported by the tempo of music. An actor might take the text very fast one night and slower the next, taking time after the first paragraph because it is possible; she is not obliged to complete a sentence so that another actor may come in on time with the music. The work of really good actors demonstrates the importance of good phrasing, which can make even the most complex thoughts understood. The best actors listen to one another: collaboration at its best. It is wonderful to develop an intimate relationship with one’s text. This makes it possible for the audience to come closer and understand that this particular moment is the essence of the play—the essence of the evening’s presentation. To me, this is the most inspiring achievement of all: to truly communicate all that the words portray.
I never tire of preparation, and I think it is fine indeed if I form an opinion about the work at hand in the process. Remember that my parents taught my siblings and me at an early age that “I don’t know” was not a good answer and that opinions were not only welcomed, but required. At this point in life, I have neither fear nor doubt in expressing an opinion as regards my work.
Of course, tact is essential when imparting a performance idea, especially, I feel, with conductors, some of whom might find the spirit of collaboration difficult to master. There was the time, for instance, when an American orchestra invited me to sing the wonderful dramatic scene The Death of Cleopatra of Berlioz. I was not given the all-important piano rehearsal prior to the orchestral rehearsal and this proved difficult. Getting together with a piano and the conductor prior to the first orchestral rehearsal ought to be written in law. Many concerns can be worked out so easily between the two of you. No egos need to be challenged or injured. The Berlioz was new to this conductor and he gave the downbeat to the orchestra much slower than is written in the score. So in a good moment, I leaned forward—out of earshot of the concert master so as not to embarrass the conductor—and said, “I am very sorry, but the first few bars are normally at a tempo about three times as fast as you have done it.” The conductor leaned toward me and said, “I think the slower tempo is better.” I said, “But it was Berlioz’s idea to have it faster. What do you think we ought to do—your idea, or the allegro that is written in the score?” The conductor was not thrilled.
I recall another such instance at the opera house in Berlin as I was preparing to sing one of my first performances of The Marriage of Figaro. The beautiful aria in the second part of the opera where the Countess Almaviva sings “Dove sono i bei momenti” (“Where are the joys of yesterday?”)—a long phrase that upon its repeat takes considerable breath control. I was working with a conductor who was new to me and who stated that singers more experienced than I would take breaths in various places within the phrases. I replied that given how Mozart had written the score, and how the text was constructed, I thought breaths in the middle of the phrase to be inappropriate. Moreover, I had the breath control to sing the aria as it was written. I think he thought I was being a silly upstart, but I was not bothered by his attitude or suggestions, and performed the phrases as Mozart wrote them.
I still do!
OF COURSE, THERE are several orchestral conductors who, if asked, would agree that the offstage relationship that we share is that of an abiding, respectful, warm friendship. This does not mean that when it comes to our artistic presentations we can never have a difference of opinion, one from the other. But as everyone surely knows, and this holds true for any profession, in any kind of relationship, if you are building on a foundation of mutual respect, comity, and the desire to produce the very best of which you are capable, any difficulty is but a problem waiting to be solved. We are colleagues, with the kind of long-standing interaction that is, in itself, comforting.
I have found great joy in working with several conductors who are true collaborators. James Levine, most certainly. Singers love him! Jim involves himself totally in the rehearsal process and we have gotten on like a house on fire from the very beginning of our work together. I acknowledge that I can bore a conductor to tears wishing to rehearse a phrase or a page more often than he (and even today, the conductor is still more often than not a “he”) feels necessary. Jim always gives space. He is interested in seeing how far a singer or instrumentalist wishes to take a phrase, a musical point, and then he’ll accompany us to that place, willingly. Making music with him is always a pleasure, and when it is a challenge, it is an incredibly rewarding challenge. Whether he is accompanying me at the piano or conducting a full orchestra, I never feel that it is a contest of wills: our only goal is to do our best for the music. It is a privilege to work with him, and I know I am not alone in saying this. He is so comfortable in himself as a musician and so thoroughly encouraging as a collaborator.
The same is true of the late Herbert von Karajan, with whom I had the privilege of working on both a performance and a recording of the “Liebestod” from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde in the late 1980s, with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra and then with the Berlin Philharmonic. I remember spending a lot of time sitting in his spacious office in Salzburg during the summer festival simply discussing the role of Isolde. And he had much to say—by that point he had conducted the opera forty-seven times! A photograph of him steering a magnificent-looking yacht was a prominent part of the collection on the walls of his workspace, and we spoke about that particular joy of his often, as well.
For the first rehearsal of the “Liebestod” in Salzburg, von Karajan asked me to come and listen to the orchestra play the entire aria without my singing at all. It took me a moment to understand what he was doing. He wanted me to really hear the orchestra, and I became aware that as a conductor he was going to be completely supportive of my singing, and that the orchestra would be equally so. Wagner’s orchestration was conceived with the special, covered orchestra pit of his opera house at Bayreuth in mind, and there was little danger of the instrumentation overpowering the human voice in such circumstances. But standing onstage with the full orchestra right behind me, I was confident that, through von Karajan’s efforts, the right balance would be achieved. It is such a pleasure to work with conductors who are so secure in their own work that collaboration is a given. They are happy to provide the thrilling support of all else that takes place. In fact, von Karajan and I spoke about this after our performance on New Year’s Eve in Berlin: the necessity of true collaboration. I do not know if he worked with other singers in this way, but it was an experience that helped to solidify my own thoughts about orchestral accompanying and how it is truly worth the time to achieve that elusive thing: proper and comfortable balance among performers. Everyone is happy to arrive at the point when we come jointly to conclusions about how to proceed—when we are so well rehearsed that we have the freedom onstage to offer something that has not been rehearsed at all, being at one with the music and with our fellow musicians. That is where the magic lies.
His Eye Is on the Sparrow • CHARLES H. GABRIEL
***
Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows fall?
Why should my heart be lonely? And long for Heaven and home.
When Jesus is my portion, my constant Friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.
I sing because I’m happy,
I sing because I’m free.
For His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me.
“Let not your heart be troubled”
His tender words I hear
And resting on His goodness, I lost my doubts and fears
Though by the path He leadeth, but one step I may see,
His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.
Whenever I am tempted, whenever clouds arise
When songs give place to sighing, when hope within me dies,
I draw the closer to Him, from care He sets me free
His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.
10
And the Journey Continues
“HE’S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HAND”
He’s got the whole world in His hand,
He’s got the woods and water in His hand,
He’s got the sun and moon in His hand,
He’s got the birds and bees right in His hand,
He’s got the beasts of the field right in His hand,
He’s got the whole world in His hand.
The ride from the airport in Frankfurt, Germany, to Baden-Baden, little more than a hundred miles, is restful and lovely. Even with all those marvelous German-made cars whizzing by, it is a beautiful ride, as so much of the landscape is a picture postcard. Peaceful and joyful, if one takes the time for it, with the addition of splendid sunsets. Witnessing one of those sunsets in the summer of 2012, during a concert series that stretched from halls in Austria and Germany to London, it was as though the sun danced across the entire side of a hill, blue at the top and full of oranges and reds and corals and pinks at the bottom, the kind of weather that happens when part of the earth is warm and the sky is cool, with Mother Nature showing herself to be the best lighting designer ever. I could not resist having our driver pull to the side of the road just for a moment, so that we could enjoy that glorious display. “Let’s just take two minutes and look at this,” I said.
It was a dear friend of mine who spoke to me of the importance of taking the time to savor such moments, at a period in my life when I was perhaps too unsettled in adulthood to appreciate fully what she wished me to understand. Her father had been a general in World War I, originally from the region that would become Czechoslovakia. His duty was to lead the fight against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. For his trouble, he was imprisoned. She spent many of her young years visiting her father in prison, which made her understand early on the value of both freedom and an appreciation of the simple things of life. A loaf of fresh bread pressed through the wire fence that divided her from him, a piece of fresh fruit. “Take time in your life,” she implored. “Enjoy your profession, but do not ever become too busy to laugh with your friends, your family; fulfill these needs of your spirit and your soul.” She went on to say, “You are not going to find yourself sitting somewhere at age eighty-five, thinking, ‘Oh, I wish I had sung a few more concerts.’ What you will more likely think is, ‘I wish I had actually gone to Kashmir with that group of friends. I could have taken that camping vacation with my sibling’s children. I should have spent more time with my friend when he fell ill.’ Those are the things that will come to mind; the simple things, the underpinnings of life itself.”
Of course, it took me a little while to understand the import of her words, to understand that time taken for myself was not time without a purpose. And I have none other than Albert Einstein to reinforce her words. He wrote once: “Creativity is the residue of wasted time.” Creativity. Life.
I take this wisdom to heart, as I know from experience now that growth and understanding can reveal themselves in those moments when thoughts are allowed to run freely. It was this state of mind that made me grab with both hands the sterling opportunity to curate the festival in 2009 under the auspices of Carnegie Hall, Honor!
It is a fitting name. We are honored to pay homage, honored by the work, the tenacity, the determination, the courage of those who went before us, honored to be their progeny.
This festival responded to a need that first arose in me as early as my student days at Howard University, during a two-year music literature course with the grand title A History of Western Music. In the textbook for this course, thick with details, there was not one mention of an African American composer—not one.
It was therefore a dream come to reality for me to be a part of this celebration of the African American cultural legacy. The three-week-long, fifty-two-event celebration in March of 2009 took place in many different venues in the city of New York, with immensely talented singers, instrumentalists, dancers, actors, scholars, and all who shone a bright light on the contributions of a people and a heritage of which I am rightfully proud. We were fortunate in having Mellonee Burnim and Portia Maultsby’s 2006 compilation African American Music: An Introduction as a marvelous guide: a timeline for the development of music ranging from the Spiritual to the blues, on to bebop, into jazz in all its variations, and rhythm and blues with all its machinations, on to pop and off to hip-hop and whatever comes next. We presented and celebrated it all. Sacred Ellington, my production of music taken from the three different sacred concerts composed by Duke Ellington, employs jazz band, jazz combo, piano, string quartet, gospel choir, a tap dancer, a spiritual dancer, and yours truly. It was a blessing to be able to present this production in the very same place where the Duke himself performed his sacred music concerts: the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine.
At Carnegie Hall, the premiere of a multimedia extravaganza, Ask Your Mama! Twelve Moods for Jazz by Langston Hughes and with music by Laura Karpman, was presented as part of the festival. At the Apollo Theater, a gospel fest for the ages was offered. The wonderful Shirley Caesar was in rare form. It was also tremendous to hear a children’s gospel choir.
From the time its doors opened in 1891, up until the Honor! festival in 2009, Carnegie Hall had welcomed some nine hundred African American musicians, actors, lecturers, and more to the stage. During the festival, Toni Morrison, Cornel West, Michael Eric Dyson, Derrick Bell, Maya Angelou, Terence Blanchard, Harolyn Blackwell, the Roots, and many more would take the stage at Carnegie. What splendor. What a gift to us all!
I thought of the enduring strength and genius of Louis Armstrong, who, invited to offer a performance somewhere in the South, found that his audience would in fact be segregated and that neither he nor his band would be permitted to enter the premises via the front door. His integrity led him to refuse to perform, and to pay his band out of his own pocket. It would be Bing Crosby who would insist that such a talent as rarely walked this earth should enter through the front entrance of anywhere in this world. Crosby insisted that Armstrong walk with him through the front door, which Armstrong did, on the condition that his band members be invited to do so, as well.
That was just one of the incalculable number of incidents of intolerance, but it was conquered by a higher degree of humanity and the simple wish of an African American to offer a gift, a talent. Armstrong played Carnegie Hall, as did Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway: the list is long and wonderful.
It was pure joy to stand on this stage, Carnegie Hall, and speak their names, and honor them as they honored us.
BY NOW, I UNDERSTAND completely that life does not occur in straight lines and that thinking of it as such only establishes the perfect environment for disappointment. The reality of peaks, valleys, and curves becomes clearer with experience, with time, with living.
I think that growing older in grace and with grace has a great deal to do with one’s attitude toward life’s progression and exactly what that means. I have decided that time has something to teach me. That I might now implement ideas that for various reasons were left by the wayside of life.
There will always be the various camps of music enthusiasts, some who feel that the works of Mozart and Beethoven, for example, are so superior to everything else that
one need nothing else. Or the Wagner devotees who offer their sympathy to those who do not possess their depth of understanding or appreciation of Wagner’s music. And let us not forget the camp that feels a trained opera singer is somehow “breaking ranks” by adding the music of different genres to his or her repertoire. Woe unto the opera singer who finds joy in the music of Rodgers and Hammerstein!
Such opinions are not a part of my choices in life. As has always been the case, I sing the music of my heart.
Roots: My Life, My Song is an example of breaking ranks. I absolutely adore singing such classics as Harold Arlen’s—but really Lena Horne’s—“Stormy Weather.” When I was considering including this song on the CD, I called Miss Lena (I always called my pal “Miss Lena,” which always made her laugh) to ask her permission. She responded, as usual in her goodness, “Oh, girl. That song does not belong to me. Go ahead and sing it and have a good time.” And that is what I am doing with this music, having a good time!
I THINK, TOO, that the passage of time can be so instructive and rewarding if we allow the respect and space for it. And I wish that we women could somehow relieve ourselves of the notion that at age sixty, we need to look like we are thirty-five. Time settles in and your hair changes and your skin becomes a little less firm and wrinkles settle in and your body does not sit easily in the same positions it did when you were young and spry, but there is beauty there, if you let it be. I suppose it is pop culture and our own sense of mortality that lead so many of us to think there is something wrong with letting it be, but I disagree. I say always that fine wine becomes even better in the bottle over time. I have decided to be a Pomerol.
Stand Up Straight and Sing! Page 24