All through the winter I'm alive; or, The Return of BS

First things first: the chair in which I currently sit is the best chair. Following the sudden departure of my second roommate in five months (and, no, not going into it, possibly ever, so let's pretend this whole second-roommate thing never happened in the first place), I found myself bereft of items of furniture in which to sit as I do things like, for example, blog and watch Gilmore Girls. Penny and I drove up to visit the parents for a couple of days, and while I was there I found the best chair. It is short, plush, and upholstered in the most hideous 1970s velveteen, which has faded everywhere except on one side of the seat cushion. And it was $30. I haven't taken a look-at-my-freaking-awesome-chair photo yet, but Penny, who is currently perched on the back and is purring, has apparently given her seal of approval. Oh. She has moved, and is currently draped over one of the arm-rests.

And now my lap. Cat, there is not room for both you and my MacBook.

(This is really how my life goes.)

So my life kind of fell apart for a while there, which is the best explanation I can offer for my recent radio silence. It happens.

I spent much of my month away from the blogosphere not sleeping. This wasn't by choice, obviously, and it took me more than two weeks to realize that my sleeplessness was connected to the CVS debacle detailed in my previous entry. As it turns out, the staff of the drugstore ended up calling the police on my behalf, and not, as I had previously thought, because two homeless guys had gotten into a fight outside, although that did happen.

But now the cat wants my attention. I just wanted to send a message out into the void and say that, hey, two people who read this, I'm still alive.  For your trouble, here, have a music video:

Thank you and goodnight.

The Heights and the Depths, pt. I; or, the triumphs and trials of being BS

Well.

There is enough to say about the past few weeks, I think, to fill three or four blog entries. Suffice it to say that at the moment I feel very much as if I am living the part of Through the Looking Glass where Alice and the Red Queen have to run as fast as they can to stay exactly where they are, and while I'm not proud to say that I have been flighty and inconsistent and rapid mood swings have caused me to lash out at people  who absolutely don't deserve it, I am very pleased to have survived. So far.

First, the good: March provided me with about a thousand opportunities to hear early music. This was due partially to the fact that the Lyric's last production of the year was Handel's Rinaldo, featuring not one, not two, but three countertenors. A countertenor, for the uninitiated, sounds like this or this, and sings roles traditionally written for castrati--and I'll just let you Google that one on your own, because I don't feel like going into particulars about the methods and socio-political reasons behind the rise of the castrato voice in liturgical and secular music in the 16th and 17th centuries just now.

Never one to pass up the rare opportunity to see a countertenor In The Live (as opposed to on a CD, YouTube, or Met HD Simulcast, which is rare enough), I purchased the cheapest, nosebleediest tickets I could find for the first show which fell on a night off from Elijah rehearsal. A friend whose husband was covering the role sung by this fellow had warned me about the "loopiness" of the staging--something about a giant floating harpsichord with balloons attached--and, yes, the soprano heroine did spend approximately half the opera imprisoned in said floating harpsichord, but damn if the cast didn't take some of the most out-there staging I've seen and run with it. Rinaldo Team Chicago: I salute you for your commitment to duty, and while I'm sure it felt ridiculous, it looked amazing. In fact, it looked so amazing that I purchased tickets to see it again the following Friday and, during first intermission, sneaked from the upper balcony to the orchestra level so I could pay closer attention to the staging. The audience, apart from the destroyers-of-fun who walked out after the first act (we didn't want you there anyway), loved it, and, at one point, broke into applause three times during the opening aria of Act II.

Chicago's Baroque Band also presented two concerts featuring Maestro Harry Bicket (the conductor for Lyric's Rinaldo) and countertenor Iestyn Davies, who sang the role of Eustazio--thankfully, I have a friend who keeps abreast of local early music happenings and was able to let me know about this event before it happened. On March 9 we drove down to Hyde Park to see the first of these performances, featuring nearly two hours of Handel arias accompanied by a period-instrument orchestra. I believe my brain shorted out at some point during this performance, because all the description I can offer of this event can be expressed only in the form of an animated GIF:

For a couple of weeks, I was floating three inches off the ground. Handel! Countertenors! Improbably complicated plot devices! Coloratura with back-up dancers! All of this was a beautiful and welcome distraction from the looming sense of dread concerning my impending loss of health care coverage and the US government's apparent growing disregard for policies which benefit the majority of its constituency. Everything was going to be okay, and, with Holy Week coming up, I could at least take a one-off church gig to cover the extra money I spent in March in order to afford tickets to Rinaldo (twice!) and the Baroque Band concert. If I wasn't completely content (and who ever is, really?), at least I was hopeful for the future.

If past experience has taught me anything, however, it is that, the moment you begin to feel as if everything is going to be all right after all, some shock will come to drop the floor out from under you. This sudden sensation of falling is something to which I ought to be accustomed by now, but, yet again, it caught me completely off-guard . . . 

( . . . To be continued . . . )

Opera-tunity knocks; or, What BS has been up to all this time

It's Business Time in the life of BS--and by "business" I mean busy-ness, which is not the same thing at all.

Unsurprising though this may be, as it's my chosen professional field, music has taken over my life once more. With Elijah rehearsals beginning at American Chamber Opera and both NATSAA (National Association of Teachers of Singing Artist Awards) and NATS (National Association of Teachers of Singing) competitions looming in the too-near future, what I have been up to is singing. And thinking about singing. And learning new music to sing. And listening to other people sing. And planning to go hear other people sing. That is to say, it's nice when your obsessions and compulsions complement each other: my current obsession is opera; its related compulsion is seeing operas. It all works out very easily, you see.

I do feel a little sorry for the people who follow me on Tumblr and Twitter, especially those who aren't musically-inclined, because I've been spamming YouTube links of my favorite singers lately. Then again, my roommate, who I finally wheedled into seeing a Met HD Simulcast with me (first Faust, then, upon her insistence, The Enchanted Island) seems to have taken very quickly to Joyce DiDonato and Luca Pisaroni, so at least I'm in no danger of being smothered in my sleep by a housemate sick of my constant cries of, "Jonas Kaufmann's hair! My god, his hair!"

Don't even try to act surprised that I included an illustrative example.

It is true, though, that I am experiencing a resurgence of love for opera. To be fair, I was never really indifferent to it, but the sudden ease of its access (performing with ACO, being able to attend the Chicago Lyric Opera, finally learning about the Met HD Simulcasts) has caused me to fall in love all over again. Since October, I have seen two live performances in which I was not a participant (the Lyric's Lucia di Lammermoor and Aida) and three not-live performances (Anna Bolena, Faust, and The Enchanted Island). I have been listening to the Sutherland/Pavarotti/Caballe recording of Turandot on the bus--this is mostly due to the fact that the first act is terrifying and I am afraid to listen to it at home alone when it is dark (I had the same problem with Poe's album Haunted).

This process of re-discovery leads, naturally, to a lot of Feelings, which can sometimes be difficult. I realize that in our society it is, for some reason, not cool to be enthusiastic about things, but when I go to the opera to spend four hours sitting in the dark having all these emotions forcibly drawn out of my body, slowly, and I leave exhausted and wired all at the same time--after seeing Anna Bolena I walked home from the movie theater, two miles in the cold--I can't help but let some of it spill out. It's like falling in love, except the honeymoon phase never ends. It's amazing. I am unapologetically enthusiastic about opera. Do I want to curl up inside "E lucevan le stelle" (here, if you've never had the pleasure) and never leave? Yes. I could live in that damn aria these days.

It makes me sad sometimes to think of how many misconceptions there are about opera, even among my friends and family. Here's the thing: opera isn't boring, or outdated, or "too long" (well--most of it, but for the sake of argument, let's ignore Wagner for right now). Interestingly, a lot of people who tell me that they can't sit through an opera because it's too long have no issue with watching a football game, which is the one place I can think of where thirty seconds can last for twenty minutes. Opera isn't always depressing, although I'm perfectly willing to let Mario Cavaradossi or Salome break my heart on a regular basis. It is okay to enjoy yourself at the opera; it is even okay to laugh. This is something I recently re-learned as I laughed out loud through a good portion of The Enchanted Island or giggled while showing my roommate YouTube videos of Leporello's Catalogue Aria from Don Giovanni (one of my favorite recent performances of which can be seen here). The best part of opera is that it not only depicts the complete range of human emotion, but makes you feel those emotions, too: giddiness, despair, terror, hope. I often feel that the entire second act of Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor is written to feel like a nightmare you can't wake up from, and that the audience is dragged alone for the ride like Lucia, almost carried to the altar for a wedding in which she doesn't want to be a participant. It's no surprise that Lucia goes crazy, since the constant spinning in the music, the gradually accelerating tempo, and wildly distorted recalled melodies make even the audience feel disoriented.

Incidentally, today I was feeling especially positive after my voice lesson and as one the baristas (a friend of mine) was taking my order, she said, "You look really happy, is there a guy?" I laughed. "No, no guy. There's almost never a guy, really. Just opera."

A sense of accomplishment; or, BS attempts productivity

I baked tonight, as anyone who has interacted with me at all via social media can tell you. And the thing about me is, when I decide to do something, it's rarely half-assed. In this case, a decision to bake in celebration of the completion of Boheme's iTunes recording and imminent opening (Saturday night! Saint John Cantius! Get yer tickets!) turned into nearly four dozen cookies and fifteen blueberry muffins. Another (little-known?) BS fact: I don't often eat much of my own baking. With the exception of loaves of bread, I generally make things for the sense of accomplishment it gives me, have two or three, and give the rest away. This was especially true during the rehearsal period of Hansel and Gretel last fall, when I lived alone and suffered from a significant amount of character bleed that led to much baking experimentation.

It's been a long time since I've shown my face here. Depression (in retrospect, probably circumstantial and due in large part to my state of unemployment) is to blame, of course, but I'm not going to go into that in any depth, as the brilliant Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half recently dealt with the same thing and addressed it more brilliantly than I could ever hope to.

Very suddenly, though, I'm feeling all right. Last week I visited my parents--which is, let's face it, an excuse to see my grouchy sixteen-year-old cat rather than an expression of my desire to return to the small town where I attended high school--and it was nice to get out of the apartment for a while, however nice said apartment is (and it is--Stephanie just decorated for Christmas, so it's all very homey). I drank coffee and read a book and considered going to see a high school production of Phantom of the Opera before experiencing a return to sanity and subsequent decision to not see Phantom after all.

Oh, Phantom of the Opera. My relationship with that musical is fairly complex. Here's the thing--despite the fact that it is the bane of every single opera singer's existence ("What do you do?" "I sing opera." "Oh, like Phantom of the Opera?" "No. Not even."), I actually sort of enjoy it. The music is pretty and easy to listen to in the first half and, given half the chance, I would play Carlotta in a second because she's hilarious. The whole thing is written to be a complete spectacle, which is why I would have loved to see it in Las Vegas last spring had I not gotten so sick during my time there. But the writing is just cruel, especially to the Phantom and Christine--the approach to the Eb in the title song is about as difficult to sing as anything. Never mind the fact that I worry about a seventeen-year-old soprano singing a high E in the first place, even if it is within the reaches of her range. So I thought better of it. Also, my mom didn't feel like going, so we went to dinner instead.

To get to my hometown and back, I took Amtrak, and had the wildest of all possible times on both trips--at least as far as train travel is concerned. On the way there, I sat a few seats away from a toothless and possibly drunk man who had apparently fainted in Union Station while waiting to board the train, and who spent a good deal of the hours-long trip attempting to engage those of us around him in awkward conversation and having a very loud and vulgar conversation with someone who I believe to be his . . . girlfriend? wife? I know it isn't polite to eavesdrop, but, honestly, even with my iPod in I couldn't help but overhear him as he shouted down the phone about how, yes, he loved her more than his previous what-have-you, and that's why he was going to get a tattoo with her name, and he was going to get the tattoo of his ex-wife's name removed as soon as he had the money.

And then on the train ride back, I contracted what might have been food-poisoning and vomited in the train car's restroom. There are some places where no one wants to worship at the porcelain altar, and the Amtrak train's restroom definitely makes the top three. The girl sitting next to me on the train was extremely nice about the fact that I repeatedly had to get up and go to the restroom, and after we finally arrived in Chicago, a very nice man saw that I was exhausted to the point that I was completely unable to lift my suitcase and did it for me, asking me if I was feeling all right, but none of this makes up for the fact that a pair of nice-looking Amish (or possibly Mennonite, given where I was coming from) gentlemen undoubtably heard me performing reverse peristalsis and probably assumed I was some drunken young English suffering the earthly consequences of the previous evening's sinful behaviors.

And I would most definitely be asleep by now, but while baking I forgot that I was also doing laundry, so the dry cycle began much, much later than I had intended and now I'm waiting until I hear it finish so the sneaky Polish dental students upstairs don't steal my socks or, whatever, I know they actually would never do that, but I like to know where my panties are. There's so much more to tell, such as why I am actually paying attention to when I go to bed--which is that I am employed and it's a Guy Fawkes Day miracle. I won't say just now what it is I'm doing, but needless to say, it involves phoning both Russia and Italy on a semi-regular basis and, no, I'm not in the Mob.

I think I'll just let (those of) you (who don't know me in Real Life) wonder about that for now.

One small step; or, BS tries to focus on the little things

First things first: I rode the Church Lady's bus again today. Her braking and accelerating technique is incredibly unsubtle and the road along which the route travels is badly in need of repair, but, in my opinion, it's all worth it when your bus driver looks like Dana Carvey in drag.

It has been the longest and most stressful month of my life (I exaggerate, of course, since I have said this about once every quarter since beginning graduate school), but it is finally opening night of Dido and Aeneas, and I couldn't be more pleased that the rehearsal period is over. There is a unique set of challenges associated with performing outdoor opera in a damp, temperate climate--most notably, I have obtained my first Washington mosquito bites during the past week, and I am still working on perfecting the crucial skill of Not Walking Into A Cloud of Gnats While Singing. Our director is no further along in that regard than I am, and on Wednesday night during the dress rehearsal, a gnat flew into his eye and, we can only presume from the amount of swelling that then took place--the poor thing ended up in a makeshift eyepatch, which I suspect he secretly loved despite the irritation, since it made him look slightly more like Wotan. That was the first night it really felt like the opera (or Dido, in any event--we'll see about Savitri) would come off successfully. I suppose the costumes made it feel more "real," rather than just another rehearsal we trudged through--we're dressed in togas (shockingly comfortable), with the chorus in masks that make them look like slightly menacing statues. This is also my first time performing opera without shoes, and there is something entirely unique about singing an aria while running barefoot through the grass. My feet were hopelessly damp by the end of the rehearsal Wednesday, but it was nice to feel the grass squishing between my toes. I believe I mentioned this in my last entry, but anyone in the Seattle area who's interested in attending can find further information here at the Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra's website, and tickets can be pre-purchased online at Brown Paper Tickets, or at the door (which is not really a door, obviously, because we're outside) prior to the show.

In light of the crushing stress of the past few weeks, life offered me a small consolation this morning: at the Starbucks near my apartment, the baristas accidentally double-marked my cup (once when I ordered, and then again when my drink was rung up), and I wound up with two double-tall caramel macchiatos instead of one. It's a simple mistake on the part of the Starbucks staff, but for all intents and purposes, I am considering it a blessing from the Beverage Gods as a reward for my patience, and for not punching anyone this week.

I didn't go to the midnight showing of Harry Potter last night, mostly because I am a grumpy old lady who needs her rest and, after all, too old to be frolicking with all those young whippersnappers late into the night. I did wear my Slytherin scarf today, though, and Paula is bringing me a Harry Potter cupcake because she went to the midnight showing last night and I am pretend-making her feel guilty about that. Also, hey, free cupcake.

Relatedly, I would really like to buy this, but I really don't have the money right now.

I haven't got much more to say, I'm afraid, so I'm just going to leave a full recording of Savitri here for anyone who would like to listen to it (and, more importantly, for me, to help me forget that a patron in the library honest-to-god, just pronounced "Wagner" incorrectly--ha!)

That's all for now. This interview's over.

Re-toxing; or, BS is back on the bean

As it turns out, During A Show is the wrong time to quit coffee. Granted, so is Right Before Independence Day, but this is something I really should have figured out the last time I did a caffeine detox, which was also the day we started full choir/orchestra rehearsals for the Grand Rapids Symphony's Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. As you can imagine, that, too, was a disaster. And so, as of Wednesday night, my detox has become what I am referring to as a "re-tox," because a BS without coffee is like a hamster without a wheel. Or something. One can only hope that, as my blood becomes infused with caffeine once more, my ability to form coherent and clever metaphors returns. Until then, we'll all have to mourn the absence of my cutting wit.

We're a week from opening night of Dido and Aeneas, and I'm certain that this is going to be one of those shows that mysteriously comes together at the last second, baffling everyone involved, because right now we're in a bit of a panic. The principal cast has, thank goodness, been the same throughout (apart from one soprano replacing another as the titular character in Holst's Savitri, which happened early enough in the process that it was more or less a non-issue), but we've had a hell of a time holding onto a chorus. The poor director was scrambling at the beginning of last month trying to secure a small group of eight singers--two each of SATB--and thought he'd found most of them, until they began dropping like flies (by "like flies," I mean, of course, "like people who suddenly realize what they've committed to and begin frantically inventing excuses to back out at the last second"). As a result, actual staging rehearsals and act run-throughs have been pushed aside a few times in favor of music rehearsals and chorus-only staging reviews. I'm confident that we'll come through, as those who remain, and the brave souls who joined the cast at the last moment, are talented, hardworking folks, but we've still got some Sturm und Drang (oh, yes I did) ahead of us.

Incidentally, if you're in the Puget Sound area and you'd like to come see us perform--and the music is absolutely gorgeous in addition to being beautifully sung--we will be giving three performances on July 15, 20, and 23, all at 8 p.m. Further details are here at the Seattle Metropolitan Chamber Orchestra's official website.

No bus adventures during the commute today, unless you count the fact that my bus driver this morning bore an uncanny resemblance to the Church Lady.

Summer laziness has begun to set in, partially due to the fact that it was, for some time, oppressively hot (by Seattle standards, which is sweater-weather by, say, Houston standards). I've fallen shamefully behind on my knitting, due partially to exhaustion--most days, upon arriving home, I collapse on the futon, where I may or may not sleep for the remainder of the evening--and partially to this niggling desire I have to frog the entire progress of my current project and start again so it will be "perfect." However, I've got to finish this project so the needles will be free for the Super Mystery Project I'm knitting for a friend's baby shower next month. Motivation! I have been waiting for it. This weekend will probably involve a fair amount of Sherlock Holmes (the old-school Jeremy Brett stuff, which has been kindly lent to me by the Dido/Savitri director), herbal tea, and quick knitting. It's rained this week, so temperatures have returned to Seattle-normal and my apartment is no longer an oven.

Must begin making real progress on packing, as well, since my return to the Midwest is imminent. I've never had much use for transitional periods--I much prefer going straight from one thing to the next with as little shilly-shallying in between as possible, so this business of having to wait ages between finding an apartment and moving into it has been agonizing. This is due in part to my abhorrence of clutter, and the fact that packing makes such a disorganized mess of everything. As a result, I often put it off until the last second, which I'm sure will not please my parents when they arrive in Seattle to help me move.

But, oh, this move will be worth it. I am so, so impatient to move on with my life, and since I don't plan on settling here, I don't see why I should have to spend any more time here than it takes to complete my studies. I prefer to be in constant motion, and paying two months extra rent to work part-time for minimum wage (no matter how much I like my job) and perform an opera role for the sole benefit of being able to add it to my resume is, at times frustrating. In addition, this two months in Seattle has made one or a few of my  friends/acquaintances here feel as if it is their place to criticize me for my decision to move.

Whoa.

Let's take a moment to delve into the implications of that for a moment, shall we?

By second-guessing my decision to leave the West Coast (best-case scenario), or by trying to make me feel guilty about "leaving them behind" (worst-case scenario), these friends/acquaintances are simultaneously embodying the passive-aggressive behavior that has frustrated me so much since  moved to Seattle, and suggesting that

1. Despite the fact that I am 25 years old and therefore an adult, I am incapable of making decisions based on experience, intuition, and my own needs.
2. Rather than taking the steps necessary to pursue my chosen career path, I should instead stay behind because, in leaving, I might hurt someone's feelings.
3. Their thoughts, ideas, and needs are more important than my own.

Except, yeah. The hell with that. I am in my mid-twenties, strong-minded, and unattached. I am neither leaving a particularly lucrative job nor having to compromise my needs with those of a significant other. I have considered my options, written about a four thousand pro-and-con lists on the subject of conducting another cross-country move, and, as all of them came through as overwhelmingly pro, I feel justified in having made this decision. What frustrates me is when people who have checked off the ticky-boxes alongside the list of goals such as "'real' job" and "discretionary income" and "house" and "children" assume that these acquisitions mean they are better-qualified than I am to make decisions about things which influence my life, as if the fact that I am not willing to settle for the sequence of events society dictates makes me somehow less of an adult. I feel like a teenager again, shouting, "Oh my god, Mom, I know what I'm doing!" I hated it the first time around, even though, in that case, my parents were probably justified. But now I am a grown-up. I buy groceries and pay bills and know how to operate a crock-pot. I don't appreciate being talked down to, especially by peers. In conclusion: if you feel that the past few paragraphs have in any way described you or something you have done, kindly back the hell off.

The sun is shining now, sort of, so I'm off to lunch and back to my book.

Rounding third base; or, stitches on the home stretch

Senioritis? Again?

It's hard to stay motivated these days, and I'm not sure if it can even be properly termed "senioritis," but what I do know is that I am in the second week of my last quarter of school, ever, and that thought is almost incomprehensible. I've been in school for longer than I can remember. Even during my gap year between college and grad school, I attended classes at a university. So the prospect of being done with academia is . . . strange.

My horoscope today--I don't necessarily believe in them, but I check it in the morning via a free app I downloaded to my phone, mostly because reading something first thing after waking up helps me gain coherence a little more quickly--says,

You are about to close a chapter--some aspect of your life that was difficult is coming to a close. Despite the challenges you faced and the hurt or sadness you experienced during this phase, you came away with a wealth of insight. As you end this part of your story, you will feel a sense of relief. Soon, you will also feel a sense of anticipation and excitement, because you are about to turn the page to a whole new and vey wonderful chapter. With what you've learned, you have the power to transform the rest of your life into a magical journey. Use discretion in the choices you make.

Difficult? Definitely. The strange thing is, my course load now is significantly lighter than it has been for as long as I can remember. I'm ticking the last few graduation requirements off my list, and they're easy ones. This morning, I learned that I had passed the French language exam required by my Masters program--one less thing. I am giving my Masters voice recital on April 16--just over a week. What remains, then, is

1) preparing 10 mini-lectures about various topics relating to music
2) piano proficiency exam (to do: gain fluency in 4-octave double-handed scales)
3) opera workshop performance (after which I will hop a plane home to go to a wedding the next day)

And that's it. Clearly I'm having some trouble staying motivated.

Unrelated, but no less irritating: I wonder what it says about our society or the state of the arts or whatever that the music we are most exposed to is either heavily auto-tuned (see: Rebecca Black, Glee, most pop music) or completely out-of-tune (see: the Truvia commercial I just watched). As a musician, I wonder, do other people just not notice things like this, or do they just not care?