There are notes that are sung, and then there are notes that are scribbled. I prefer the first. Vocal notes - for those hearing them — are like shimmering bubbles that contain a drop of artful human essence and then disappear, one after the other. As an opera singer, I can only produce one at a time, and each one must be perfect in its way. And now it seemed that, in this new production of Pagliacci, the sobs had to be perfect, too.
Because after the first few run-throughs (which I deliberately executed without the traditional sobbing) the director, Richard, had given me notes. Or rather, one scribbled note left on my dressing table. Had he been afraid to speak directly to me? I don’t know why - I’m not a divo! He apparently wanted the sobs to be heard as discreet and specific notes, notes that were not present in the original score. He had jotted them down on a quickly-sketched musical staff, as if he were editing Leoncavallo’s masterpiece. He probably knew he was verging on disrespect — of the composer, and of me.
Nevertheless, I attempted to fulfill his wish. This was early on in rehearsals. I struggled to jump from the high notes of “tuo amore infranto” to the notes that Richard had indicated for a first sob. They were more than an octave down, and there were two of them. Then it seemed I was expected to instantly re-ascend the scale to the top of the final descending passage, “Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor,” after which Richard wanted ANOTHER two-note sob at a much higher pitch than the ending note! This was nearly impossible. The strange sequence pulled my concentration from the clown's emotion I was trying to express, to navigating a bizarre technical feat. It did not go well.
“What were you DOING?!” Richard asked at the conclusion of Act 1. “Why were you sobbing in that odd way? It’s not necessary for you to sob at all, you know, just because others do. I was open to your straightforward interpretation.”
“You left a note, a sketch, on my dressing table, Richard. You gave me specific notes for the sobs.”
“I did?” Richard looked puzzled. “I haven’t even been in the dressing room in the last three days.”
I pulled the note from my pocket and showed him. It was written on yellow lined paper in black ink. There was a smear at the edge of the staff that looked like a cheap ball-point smudge. “I use a more expensive pen than THAT,” Richard said huffily.
“I'm not a detective,” I said. “I’m just relieved that you didn’t leave this note, and that I don’t have to argue! As you heard in my versions earlier, I feel that sobbing is not necessary!" I was now eager to have another go at it, but Richard wanted to move on to Act 2.
A couple weeks later, before the final dress rehearsal, I found another note on my dressing table. Same paper, same pen, different musical notes. This time the notes were added at the end of the line and they were more indicative of the traditional sobs. Someone wanted those sobs, and they’d learned something about musical notation since the first attempt at communicating with me.
I didn't have time to think about it, though. The final rehearsal was beginning and it rolled along. As I was moving inexorably toward the first notes of “vesti da giubba” I noticed a small silhouetted figure at the side entry to the front-row seats. And as I reached the climax and denouement of the aria without the sobs, as Richard and I had agreed, I heard faint sounds from that figure, uncannily imitating Caruso’s 1910 recording. Despite the protocol for dress rehearsal (where there were always a few students attending), I left the stage during the break to seek that silhouetted figure. She was busy vacuuming the carpeted hall — a tiny older lady wearing the navy-blue jumpsuit required by theater management. The embroidered name on the pocket, in red, was “Rosa.”
“Was it you who left me musical notes on my dressing table, Rosa?” I pulled the most recent one from the folds of my clown suit.
She nodded. “I love the opera,” she said. “My great-grandfather had a record of that song you do. The man on the record, he cried.”
“I know,” I said, “but...” And then I felt the pull of tradition, even when it came to the smallest things. They weren’t small to some people. And hadn’t I included the sobs when I studied the darned aria in school? Who was I to change it now?
“I will take your advice,” I promised Rosa. “I will cry. Tomorrow, I will cry.”
— Macoff
Because after the first few run-throughs (which I deliberately executed without the traditional sobbing) the director, Richard, had given me notes. Or rather, one scribbled note left on my dressing table. Had he been afraid to speak directly to me? I don’t know why - I’m not a divo! He apparently wanted the sobs to be heard as discreet and specific notes, notes that were not present in the original score. He had jotted them down on a quickly-sketched musical staff, as if he were editing Leoncavallo’s masterpiece. He probably knew he was verging on disrespect — of the composer, and of me.
Nevertheless, I attempted to fulfill his wish. This was early on in rehearsals. I struggled to jump from the high notes of “tuo amore infranto” to the notes that Richard had indicated for a first sob. They were more than an octave down, and there were two of them. Then it seemed I was expected to instantly re-ascend the scale to the top of the final descending passage, “Ridi del duol, che t'avvelena il cor,” after which Richard wanted ANOTHER two-note sob at a much higher pitch than the ending note! This was nearly impossible. The strange sequence pulled my concentration from the clown's emotion I was trying to express, to navigating a bizarre technical feat. It did not go well.
“What were you DOING?!” Richard asked at the conclusion of Act 1. “Why were you sobbing in that odd way? It’s not necessary for you to sob at all, you know, just because others do. I was open to your straightforward interpretation.”
“You left a note, a sketch, on my dressing table, Richard. You gave me specific notes for the sobs.”
“I did?” Richard looked puzzled. “I haven’t even been in the dressing room in the last three days.”
I pulled the note from my pocket and showed him. It was written on yellow lined paper in black ink. There was a smear at the edge of the staff that looked like a cheap ball-point smudge. “I use a more expensive pen than THAT,” Richard said huffily.
“I'm not a detective,” I said. “I’m just relieved that you didn’t leave this note, and that I don’t have to argue! As you heard in my versions earlier, I feel that sobbing is not necessary!" I was now eager to have another go at it, but Richard wanted to move on to Act 2.
A couple weeks later, before the final dress rehearsal, I found another note on my dressing table. Same paper, same pen, different musical notes. This time the notes were added at the end of the line and they were more indicative of the traditional sobs. Someone wanted those sobs, and they’d learned something about musical notation since the first attempt at communicating with me.
I didn't have time to think about it, though. The final rehearsal was beginning and it rolled along. As I was moving inexorably toward the first notes of “vesti da giubba” I noticed a small silhouetted figure at the side entry to the front-row seats. And as I reached the climax and denouement of the aria without the sobs, as Richard and I had agreed, I heard faint sounds from that figure, uncannily imitating Caruso’s 1910 recording. Despite the protocol for dress rehearsal (where there were always a few students attending), I left the stage during the break to seek that silhouetted figure. She was busy vacuuming the carpeted hall — a tiny older lady wearing the navy-blue jumpsuit required by theater management. The embroidered name on the pocket, in red, was “Rosa.”
“Was it you who left me musical notes on my dressing table, Rosa?” I pulled the most recent one from the folds of my clown suit.
She nodded. “I love the opera,” she said. “My great-grandfather had a record of that song you do. The man on the record, he cried.”
“I know,” I said, “but...” And then I felt the pull of tradition, even when it came to the smallest things. They weren’t small to some people. And hadn’t I included the sobs when I studied the darned aria in school? Who was I to change it now?
“I will take your advice,” I promised Rosa. “I will cry. Tomorrow, I will cry.”
— Macoff
Macoff - this gave me shivers! it is so good. I love everything about this. Caruso was a friend of my great grandfather. I love the take on notes - written, acknowledged (noted) and musical.
ReplyDeleteOh, wow! Who has made this comment? Caruso was a real character! Very friendly, they say! I think the "father of public relations" (Edward Bernays) helped him promote himself.
DeleteComment was from lkai. My father had the corredpondence between his grandfathwr and Caruso.
DeleteThis is so lyrically beautiful. I really enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteOh my goodness, you may want to think about sending this to a flash fiction contest. Just wonderfully executed. Really enjoyed the writing. Kudos!
ReplyDelete