I-3 Lech Lecha: Go You
It seemed to be a good admonishment that perhaps I should seriously try to sing again. It's rather frightening prospective because I haven't sung for so many years and grand pianos are intimidating. The repertoire is also not exactly easy:
Beethoven, Ah Perfido�the concert aria that was the study for Fidelio
Mozart, Cosi fan tutte: Come Scoglio and Per Pieta
Puccini, Tosca: Visi d'Arte and Gianni Schicchi: O mio babbino caro
Verdi, Trovatore: D'amor sull' ali rosee and Nabucco: Abigail's Romanze
and this is after nearly fourteen years of silence.
It's hard to re-enter a profession that is so restricted by time. An accountant or bank clerk will always remain the same, but anything in sports or dependent on the human body is restricted to agility. Vocal agility is no different than physical flexibility. Playing professional baseball or hockey at forty is tough and at fifty nigh impossible; but so is singing, particularly after such a long silence and no contact with a grand piano.
I was trained as a dramatic soprano soloist in Vienna and blacklisted in Prague. A teacher puts not only time into a student, but faith into the future. A student represents a teacher's investment. You honor a good teacher in what you do. So despite my old age, I wish to honor those who influenced and trained me as a musician. It's very hard, but Abraham wasn't young and yet he began his journey to an unknown destination.
Pianos and pianists can be tricky even when you somewhat know them. There was the piano in Vienna that had so many hammers and notes missing that two hours before a house concert, we transposed a song into three different keys in quest to find the chords. Then there is the pianist who drives like a maniac with his foot on the gas, or the accompianist who floats about in a different world. There are auditions where you sit in the icy hallway for five hours, such as for I. Holender, only to discover on admission that the pianist plays principally with two fingers and the agent's not there. Instead, there is a row of immature snobby Viennese who spend your time chatting to each other and scraping their chairs across the floor while you struggle through the music, trying to restrain your temper and maintain some dignity. And then there are the nasty politics...
I began writing for Suite in November 2002. Between then and
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