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Something Is Always on Fire

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by Measha Brueggergosman


  I allowed my expectations as an artist (and even as a person) to explode in every direction I ever wanted to go in—formerly having lacked the energy, desire, confidence or breath control to do so. More than liberating myself from a personal demon, I had won the war over my potential limitations as an artist in a visual medium. It’s not to say that I wasn’t doing just fine professionally at the weight I was (I was more than stably employed); I was simply putting in front of myself an obstacle that didn’t need to be there. I’ve said that I believe in an efficiency of movement, and as emotional as I was about my body image, it was the inefficiency of obesity and its potential detriment to my aspirations of Total World Domination that ultimately made me want to lose the weight and keep it off. And I didn’t stop there. I had new mountains to climb . . .

  Throughout my life, the concept of “trusting the process” has been a recurring theme. However, about eight years into my piano lessons, it started to dawn on me that it took me five hours of hardcore practising to accomplish what an actual pianist could do in one. As my singing progressed, I also learned that I wanted to face the audience instead of facing stage left, as pianists were obliged to do. I wanted direct access to my people.

  At age twelve, I was made Junior Star of the Fredericton Music Festival. This two-week-long competition consisted of performance categories for instrumentalists, chamber ensembles, choirs and soloists. I loved being able to hear other musicians my age, but truth be told, I was in it to win it. At first only classical music was featured, but later musical theatre was added. Essentially, they were giving us an opportunity to act as well as sing.

  In junior high I had also taken up the trombone. Unlike my nightmare with the violin, its low brass notes were generated by the breath, with a less confusing process for my hands, so we bonded for a time. How else was I going to get to band camp? I played the French horn, too, but as much as I loved its warm, cushy sound, I failed miserably. The size of these lips is much better suited to trombone than French horn. So that year I entered every festival category that I could, consistently losing my trombone categories to Jim Tranquilla, the town’s best player, and my piano classes to Jessica Bailey, who I still count among my dearest friends.

  I won every voice category I entered, singing classics like “Après un rêve” by Gabriel Fauré; “I Will Give My Love An Apple,” an English folksong; Schubert’s “Gretchen am Spinnrade” and Brahms’s “Wiegenlied.” The fact that the festival competition took place in Fredericton’s most beautiful churches and cathedrals made me feel right at home.

  For my performance in the junior concert of the festival where I hoped to be crowned Junior Star, my mother made me a black velvet bodice dress, with a matching black taffeta ruffle skirt and an embroidered white lace neckline “to frame my face.” My hair was parted in the middle and pulled back so slick against my head that it gave me a headache. I loved everything about this night. I did win the prize on which I’d set my sights. There’s a picture of me sitting on our piano bench, holding the huge trophy that came with the first prize for singing that I ever won. This competition also brought my first cash prize—$200. My mother took me straight to the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce on Queen Street in Fredericton to open my first bank account so I could deposit my earnings. (This was classic Ann Gosman. One of the first things she did after each child of hers was born was apply for our social insurance numbers and our passports. And I’ve done the same for both my babies.) Since I’d never been in a bank before, this cavernous marble mausoleum to money created an indelible impression. To this day I have that same CIBC account, and I can always remember the number. Since then every accountant has told me, “Don’t ever close this account. It has no fees, no holds and no red tape.” It’s the unicorn of bank accounts. If I ever wanted to launder money (which I don’t), this would be the way to go.

  I learned how to hone and focus my ambitions as a singer through the musicianship of Mrs. Wilkins, who moonlighted as the director of two significant choirs while also teaching music to the students in my school district. She was tough and exacting. Borderline cruel—but never wrong. I have been blessed to be guided by intuitive mentors with high standards. When David Steeves felt the best course of action for my voice studies would be to study with a woman, he sent me to Mabel Doak, whose students typically won all the singing prizes at the festival. I had no idea that Mrs. Doak was Mrs. Wilkins’s mom! I was young enough to assume my authority figures didn’t have parents. Given Mrs. Wilkins’s demanding standards, I was terrified to imagine how much tougher her mother might be. That Mrs. Doak would be teaching me at her house added to the intimacy, which also added to the pressure. I was about to be taught by the tree from which the apple had fallen.

  It was already dark out when I arrived at the Doaks’ burning porchlight for my first lesson. I was led down a hall, then around the corner into a living room where the piano awaited, all the while knowing Mrs. Doak’s husband (Mrs. Wilkins’s dad!) was also there in another room. I felt like I was being handed the keys to the kingdom while simultaneously being condemned to death. I was going to have to work harder than I had ever worked before.

  Mrs. Doak was very methodical—no “basking in the results” with all that work yet to be done. She taught me how to separate method from emotion, which meant serving your instrument by being objective about it. Years later, when I received what would be my third honorary doctorate, from Fredericton’s St. Thomas University, Mrs. Doak received hers in the same ceremony. I remember wondering, Why am I onstage giving the commencement speech, when the one and only Mrs. Doak is sitting right here? Nothing I can offer could compare with her wealth of wisdom and experience. She is a huge part of the reason I’m standing here in the first place.

  In Fredericton I knew what was expected of me. By the time I got to the University of Toronto for my bachelor of music in vocal performance, I was afraid of not being as good as people had told me that I was. I was afraid of letting down those who had donated to the Friends of Measha Fund—a fund started in my hometown by Jerry McFarland, a retired schoolteacher who had also taught my siblings, and Dr. Sydney Grant, a dear friend to my family, to help me give concerts to raise money for university and all the accompanying expenses. Even as I entered the Edward Johnson Building at the University of Toronto for my first day of classes, I remember thinking, If this doesn’t work, then everything I believe to be true isn’t true.

  It still brings tears to my eyes to remember all the people who have scrounged and sacrificed and believed I was destined for great things . . .

  I knew I was to study voice with Mary Morrison. We had not laid eyes on each other before. She was, by reputation, a distinguished teacher and an accomplished singer. Wendy Nielsen, my Fredericton teacher, had been one of her students. I went to study with Wendy on the recommendation of Mabel Doak, who had been Wendy’s first teacher. Wendy was from New Brunswick but had gone on to an illustrious career and had started taking students. Her teacher at the time was Mary Morrison. This would complete the circle of teachers that have been the trajectory of my tutelage. David Steeves, at my ripening, would pass me to Mabel Doak, who would elevate me to Wendy Nielsen, who would then ready me for Mary. I have been Mary’s student now for twenty-one years.

  Upon Wendy recommending me to Ms. Morrison, my parents had driven the eighteen hours from Fredericton to Toronto to meet Mary on my behalf. It occurs to me that this might not be a normal thing for the average parent to do, but my parents are not the average. I can’t remember why I didn’t go (I was likely in school at the time), but I have no memory of it being weird that my parents would go in my stead. They were my managers, after all. When they met Professor Morrison, they assured this teacher that if she committed to me, I would commit to her, and that they, as my parents, would guarantee that I would fulfill every requirement of my advancement.

  My parents also arranged for me to live in Annesley Hall, an all-female residence across the street from the U of T music fac
ulty. They expected me to roll out of bed, go to school, then return to my dorm each night, which I essentially did for two years.

  In my first year I shared a tiny room with Inez Mahmoud, a science major, who was the most exotic creature I’d ever met. She had beautiful olive skin, a mane of straight, thick black hair and perfect eyebrows, which she worked on every night. Inez was a first-generation Canadian from a Palestinian Muslim family who lived in Mississauga, a Toronto suburb. She knew nothing about where I came from and I knew nothing about where she came from. It was an incredible cultural intersection, and I remember looking at her and sincerely pondering, Who are you?

  Despite Toronto’s growing reputation as a multinational city, I discovered that U of T was extremely white—some Asian students, some Middle Eastern and some East Indian, but not many, and only whites on faculty. My two BFs on campus were two Kevins, one white and one black. White Kevin Skelton became Whevin, and black Kevin Richardson became Blevin, eventually shortened to Whé and Blé. If Blé and I happened to see two black people together on campus, we’d check the date to make sure it wasn’t February (Black History Month). All this whiteness made me feel right at home, just like in Fredericton.

  Like a lot of people, I suspect, my university years were when I homed in on my personal style. It wasn’t without trial and (massive) error. At one time or another my wardrobe could have included: a dress with an overalls top, an above-the-knees skirt (quite racy for me), jean shorts with brightly coloured nylons, penny loafers. You could throw in a pair of platform, neon-green, quasi-clown shoes that I was particularly proud of, but never sweatpants. I’ve never been able to understand how anyone could leave the house in those. And don’t even get me started on the yoga pants bodies run around in these days.

  I met Mary Morrison in her basement office when I turned up for my first vocal lesson. I was so bombarded with the intensity and confusion of university life I don’t remember first impressions. While I would prioritize my weekly voice lessons, the courses that really scared me were Materials of Music, Harmonic Analysis and Dictation—the transcription of rhythm and harmony by ear. I considered these of value only for geeky instrumentalists and the odd jazzer. Even thinking now about the hours I spent trying to wrap my untethered brain around their elusive exactitude makes me bleed from the eyes. Dictation turned out to be the only course I ever failed in my life.

  Generally, music students arrive at university with a couple of arias and a few art songs under their belt (and yes—sigh—singers are music students). In your first and second years a jury will adjudicate your progress based on three or four selections picked from a list you’ve submitted—the first of which is the performer’s choice. In your fourth year you perform a full recital.

  Thanks to my Friends of Measha fundraising concerts, I arrived at U of T with a full recital of Mozart, Handel, Brahms and Mendelssohn already under my belt. Every year after that I would learn enough repertoire to sing another full recital to raise more money.

  A lot of students go on to a degree in music with the goal of being the next big international soloist. This goes double for the students enrolled in reputed institutions such as the University of Toronto Faculty of Music. We spend a lot of time listening, competing, practising, gossiping, researching, memorizing, translating, auditioning, writing, procrastinating and trying to stay awake in class. The instrumentalists congregate according to instrument or ensemble configurations. There isn’t a lot of fraternizing between instrumentalist and singer. But pianists have it the worst, since they bridge both camps. You need a pianist whether you’re a singer or an instrumentalist. Pianists are either composed for specifically, in the case of concerti, piano quintets or art song, or their parts are a reduction of the orchestral accompaniment. The pianists who are good enough to get into a music faculty are usually convinced they’re going to be soloists. I find this preposterous given that you could throw a rock and hit several people who’ve taken piano lessons, yet the average person would be hard-pressed to name three famous classical pianists. (And no, Geoffrey Rush and Adrien Brody don’t count.) Students are regularly playing with other students of a similar level for the first time once they get to university. They tend to treat any kind of chamber music with contempt, despite the fact that statistically speaking, none of them will become world-famous soloists. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

  There is way more music written for chamber ensemble or orchestra than there is for a soloist. Even the composers whose music has lasted hundreds of years were more inspired by the collective than the individual. If we taught instrumentalists much, much earlier that they weren’t compromising their musicianship or dashing their dreams by “lowering themselves” to chamber music or (gasp!) collaborating with a singer, then they would be open to a richness of repertoire that would make them more attractive to potential agents, orchestras and arts organizations, not to mention they would get So. Much. More out of their experience as a working musician. However, the “soloist mentality” is perpetuated by the system that teaches them.

  The emphasis that is placed on becoming a star soloist, not unlike becoming an elite athlete, sucks the joy out of becoming a better technician, artist or team player. Heralding people who have no lives, social skills or empathy is a horrible example to the humans among us who are flawed, impulsive and relaxed. This myopic view of what constitutes an accomplished instrumentalist has done us singers a world of harm. Why? Because we love instrumentalists. Deeply! With the heat of a thousand suns!

  The term “accompanist” has gone out of fashion and been justifiably replaced by “collaborative pianist” because the pianist is a full partner to the process. As a young singer, you expend a tremendous amount of energy trying to figure out why you can’t make it to the end of that phrase, or why it is you can’t seem to find the pitch or come in at the right time, and a good collaborative pianist, invisible though this person may seem to the average listener, is there to get you through all this. Collaborative pianists usually throw in a few good therapy sessions along the way, as well.

  Whether accompanist or collaborative pianist, this is a special person who decides to dedicate his or her life to creating the most fruitfully musical atmosphere and environment for the singer and the music. The best ones know that they make or break it all. The best singers know this, too. In university, you spend most of your time convincing the unconvinced pianists that they are not to “follow” but should, instead, anticipate your needs as a technician, communicator and ticket seller. You decide, as a duo, where things are going to go and what the ultimate point of it all is. Are we going for four-bar phrases? Are we playing against the minor mode and opting for a lighter interpretation? Does it make sense for me to take this breath here? In any given moment, what part needs to speak louder, piano or voice? What is the text telling us to do? What is the composer saying without saying it? I like to think of it as two guitar strings playing separately but perfectly together, humming along with an intensity appropriate to each other’s place within the chord.

  Recitalists (those singers who perform with piano only), usually fall into two categories: the unglamorous, detached academics (*sigh* . . . “I just love the sound of my voice”) and the consummate storyteller (*fist pump* . . . “I commit to making whatever sound the story demands of me”). To paint in broad strokes: one is boring, while the other is trying too hard. I’m going to take a further diplomatic stance here to also say that the jury remains out on whether there exists, in this specified subsection of the classical singer, a group that typically would have a hard time being heard over an orchestra. As in, they would not be described as having large voices.

  And of the pianists who’ve made their bones in the Art of the Song Recital? Heartthrobs like Roger Vignoles, Julius Drake, Martin Katz, Simon Lepper, Margo Garrett and Graham Johnson, in my experience, tend to have the temperament for the job; to understate it by a mile: someone who has devoted his (and thanks to pioneers like Margo Garrett,
increasingly her) life of musical service to a maîtrise that is an essential mix of strong woman and flamboyant man. There is a technique, methodology and intuition to the elevated art form of collaborative piano playing. It’s hermaphroditic in its push and pull because classical singers are crazy, but they’re also magnetic and charismatic. But the collaborative pianist, along with the singer, commits to creating a time zone that will generate an atmosphere most conducive to the success of your ultimate master: Art. When the singer selflessly engages in this pursuit along with her collaborative pianist, magic happens.

  The selfless part is where we can run into problems. Pre-existing egos re-creating pre-existing works have to find a way to selflessly infuse themselves into the process without tainting or blurring the ultimate goal of entertaining the paying bums in the seats. I’ve never been the type of performer who clenches my fists and says, You’ll take what I give you. I don’t know what purpose that would serve beyond alienating a willing audience.

  If there’s one thing that makes me sad about young singers today, it’s that they don’t seem to understand the power they yield or the space they take up. They’re weighed down by their course load, their hormones, the chatter, the emojis, and they forget that we singers have been given the keys to the kingdom in that we’ve been chosen to sing the best music in the entire world. It’s hard to teach someone to “own it,” but in the rare instances when I do teach, that’s usually what it comes down to. Pride of place. Convince yourself that Schubert wrote this for you just yesterday; turn to your audience and exude, Here’s a little ditty I’d like to sing for you. Commit to the narrative you and your pianist have worked out in rehearsal and let it rip. It’s a methodical abandon. Instead of taking everything so goddamn seriously. Forgive me, but our core classical composers are dead and long gone. Your passion is your testimony. By singing with this type of methodical abandon, the living ones will want to write for you because they know you can bring it. And having composers write things for you is an effective way for a muse to stay connected to the future.

 

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