[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/07/bringing-motivation-from-newcastle.html[/postlink]
One summer I taught a master class at a festival in Newcastle, which was filmed by the BBC. One of the students in the class was a young tenor who had just landed a job at the prestigious La Scala Opera Company in Milan and everything about his demeanor said that we were to take his recent success very seriously indeed.
He was to sing: "Spring Dream" ("Frullingstraum"), from Schubert's Die Winterreise, a song cycle that describes the yearning depressive journey of a jilted love through the cold days of the soul. In this song, the hero is dreaming of the flowers and meadows of a springtime past when he delighted in the warm embraces of his beloved. The gently lilting music conjures up blissful joy, blissful fulfillment. Suddenly a crow screams from the rooftops-he awakens and discovers it is dark and cold. Half in a dream, he mistakes the frost patterns on the windows for flowers and asks," Who painted those flowers there-when will they turn to green?" The answer comes to him: "When I have my loved one in my arms again." But, despite the major key, we know from the dynamic markings and the shape of the phrasing that he will never get her back.
The music is some of the most intimate, soft, subtle, and delicate in the repertoire. It depends for expressions on an understanding of the nuances of sadness, vulnerability, and never-ending loss. But when Jeffrey began to sing, there was no trace of melancholy. Out poured a glorious stream of rich, resonant, Italiante sound. Pure Jeffrey, taking himself very seriously. How could I induce him to look past himself in order to become a conduit for the expressive passion of the music?
I began by asking him if he was willing to be coached. "Oh, I love to be coached," he said breezily, though I doubt he had any idea of what was to follow. For forty-minutes, I engaged in a battle royal, not with Jeffrey but with his pride, his vocal training, his need to look good, and the years of applause he had received for his extraordinary voice. As each layer was peeled away and he got closer to the raw vulnerability of Schubert's distraught lover, his voice lost its patina and began te reveal the human soul beneath. His body, too, began to take on a softened and rounded turn. At the final words, "When will I have my lover in my arms again?" Jeffrey's voice, now almost inaudible, seemed to reach us through some other, channel than sound. Nobody stirred-the audience, the players, the BBC crew-all of us were unified in silence. Then, finally, tremendous applause.
I thanked Jeffrey publicly for his willingness to give up his pride, his training, and his vocal accomplishment, and explained that our applause was for the sacrifice he had made to bring us to a place of understanding. "Whenever somebody gives up their pride to reveal a truth to others, " I told him," we find incredibly moving; in fact, we are all so moved that even the cameraman is crying." I hadn't actually my conviction that no one in the room could be left unmoved.
Later that evening, in the pub, cameraman came up to me and asked how I had known he had been crying. He confessed that he hadn't been able to see through his lens for his tears. "When I was sent on his job from London," he said, shaking his head,"I had no idea that this music shift was about my life."
One summer I taught a master class at a festival in Newcastle, which was filmed by the BBC. One of the students in the class was a young tenor who had just landed a job at the prestigious La Scala Opera Company in Milan and everything about his demeanor said that we were to take his recent success very seriously indeed.
He was to sing: "Spring Dream" ("Frullingstraum"), from Schubert's Die Winterreise, a song cycle that describes the yearning depressive journey of a jilted love through the cold days of the soul. In this song, the hero is dreaming of the flowers and meadows of a springtime past when he delighted in the warm embraces of his beloved. The gently lilting music conjures up blissful joy, blissful fulfillment. Suddenly a crow screams from the rooftops-he awakens and discovers it is dark and cold. Half in a dream, he mistakes the frost patterns on the windows for flowers and asks," Who painted those flowers there-when will they turn to green?" The answer comes to him: "When I have my loved one in my arms again." But, despite the major key, we know from the dynamic markings and the shape of the phrasing that he will never get her back.
The music is some of the most intimate, soft, subtle, and delicate in the repertoire. It depends for expressions on an understanding of the nuances of sadness, vulnerability, and never-ending loss. But when Jeffrey began to sing, there was no trace of melancholy. Out poured a glorious stream of rich, resonant, Italiante sound. Pure Jeffrey, taking himself very seriously. How could I induce him to look past himself in order to become a conduit for the expressive passion of the music?
I began by asking him if he was willing to be coached. "Oh, I love to be coached," he said breezily, though I doubt he had any idea of what was to follow. For forty-minutes, I engaged in a battle royal, not with Jeffrey but with his pride, his vocal training, his need to look good, and the years of applause he had received for his extraordinary voice. As each layer was peeled away and he got closer to the raw vulnerability of Schubert's distraught lover, his voice lost its patina and began te reveal the human soul beneath. His body, too, began to take on a softened and rounded turn. At the final words, "When will I have my lover in my arms again?" Jeffrey's voice, now almost inaudible, seemed to reach us through some other, channel than sound. Nobody stirred-the audience, the players, the BBC crew-all of us were unified in silence. Then, finally, tremendous applause.
I thanked Jeffrey publicly for his willingness to give up his pride, his training, and his vocal accomplishment, and explained that our applause was for the sacrifice he had made to bring us to a place of understanding. "Whenever somebody gives up their pride to reveal a truth to others, " I told him," we find incredibly moving; in fact, we are all so moved that even the cameraman is crying." I hadn't actually my conviction that no one in the room could be left unmoved.
Later that evening, in the pub, cameraman came up to me and asked how I had known he had been crying. He confessed that he hadn't been able to see through his lens for his tears. "When I was sent on his job from London," he said, shaking his head,"I had no idea that this music shift was about my life."