Everyone has a memory that can still knot your stomach. Yep, turning over as I write.
But first, background. Degree requirements for music teachers at In-state U ("IU") included a bit of torture, no exceptions.
1. Perform three patriotic songs on the piano. Challenging for woodwind, brass, or string players, but at least they read
music. For vocalists – lots of non-readers - it was climbing Everest.
But wait - there was a separate gauntlet for would-be vocal music teachers.
But wait - there was a separate gauntlet for would-be vocal music teachers.
2. Obtain a passing grade in three semesters of private
voice study.
Funny, it seemed doable in the course catalog. And before I knew my "passing grade" would decided by a voice jury. Still, no one had ever succumbed from this requirement, right?
Funny, it seemed doable in the course catalog. And before I knew my "passing grade" would decided by a voice jury. Still, no one had ever succumbed from this requirement, right?
So, I dutifully memorized an Italian song, enlisted my roommate, Jan, (a French horn and piano player and soprano – the envy of the campus!) as my accompanist, and we rehearsed and rehearsed.
My TA mentioned that her teacher, a “Ms. Harshaw,” at IU from NYC a couple days a week, would judge my jury.
(Okay – I Googled Ms. Harshaw just now for actual facts. The
much-revered Margaret Harshaw[i] sang 22 seasons (375 performances) at the Metropolitan
Opera. She had 39 roles in 25
different operas, and sang in 40 of
the Met’s weekly live broadcasts.. Yes – that Ms. Harshaw was judging my breathy second soprano.)
The big day arrived. Ms.
Harshaw was ready.
Jan played the introduction to my Italian song, I opened my mouth, and
. . .
NOTHING –
NOT A SQUEAK, SQUAWK, SHRIEK . . .
Jan looked up in surprise (okay, alarm!). Ms. Harshaw graciously asked if we would like to begin
again. I nodded, mutely.
Again, the introduction.
Here I go, I will be singing in a second. Breathe . . .
MOUTH. OPEN. SILENCE.
Ms. Harshaw, a bit concerned now, inquired whether I would like to get a drink of water. Again, I nodded. Mutely.
Jan and I went to the hall.
I drank. I cleared my throat and drank again. I tried to produce some sound – anything! Who is the patron saint of singers? St. Cecelia? St. Blaise? Eventually there was a strained kind of croaking.
Back in we went. Tried again. The intro – very nice - though Jan now had a distressing red tone creeping up her neck
to her ears and beyond.
What was that sound? Was someone singing? It was not a
voice that I, Jan, my TA or any other living human being had ever heard before, but the words and the notes were MY ITALIAN SONG and (gasp!) correct!
Finally, it was over. Ms. Harshaw thanked us and we exited with haste.
Finally, it was over. Ms. Harshaw thanked us and we exited with haste.
Later, grades were posted.
The Metropolitan Opera Wagnerian Diva had given me an A. For courage, no doubt.
Bravo, Ms. Harshaw! Bravo!
As for hindsight, have I mentioned that my dad always wanted me to be an anesthesiologist?
As for hindsight, have I mentioned that my dad always wanted me to be an anesthesiologist?
[i]
Ms. Harshaw is now deceased. These figures are from her New York Times obituary, which was
impressively lengthy, even for a famous opera singer.
No comments:
Post a Comment