While driving to work one day recently, I decided on a whim to listen to some recordings of my college choir concerts (c. 1989). One of the programs included a couple of pieces from Leonard Bernstein’s Candide, arranged by our director, Dr. Robert Page. As the second of these pieces, “Make Our Garden Grow,” began, I felt tears welling up and I had to stop and marvel at that for a moment. The performance was far from perfect. The piece was being sung by both of the university’s choirs combined, which means that the skill level of the singers (both in technique and musicality) varied greatly. (more…)

Something that came up recently during our weekly studio meeting (aka Sunday afternoon teatime after walking the dog), was the difference between working with students who are “serious” and “not serious,” what that really means, and how to encourage talented students to consider becoming “serious.” It’s true that we’re always going to be teaching quite a number of students who are in it “just for fun” and there’s nothing wrong with that. But what is especially rewarding for us and where we can best enjoy the fruits of our labors, is working with students who have a serious goal in mind, whether that goal is to make a career in the arts or even just to have a stronger audition for next year’s school musical.

As we were talking, I was thinking about my own experiences as a performer and what made being “serious” worthwhile. The truth is, there is some pretty spectacular pleasure that can really only be experienced when your instrument and performance have reached professional (or at least near-professional) level. There is something about singing–when everything is working just as it should and something incredibly difficult has become, in many ways, effortless–that feels better than anything else in the world. It is an unparalleled rush. The sensation of it, the sound of it–there is honestly nothing like it. When we were discussing this together, I likened it to a “high,” but really, it is much, much better, because along with the euphoria is the sure knowledge that this is something produced entirely by oneself through years of study and hard work.

I am an essentially impatient person. I enjoy hard work, but really only when it leads to immediately satisfying results–a fault responsible for my ultimate lack of success with the oboe, cello, piano, and guitar–four instruments I studied without consistent dedication or focus at one point or another. I loved the idea of playing these instruments and I enjoyed playing them when things were going well, but I didn’t have the patience to work through what was difficult in order to make any significant progress. I must admit this applied to my vocal studies during my early years as well, the only difference being that I had more natural talent in that area so it was possible to make progress with very little work. It wasn’t until college when I was hit with the reality of the talent around me that I was forced into evaluating how much work I was truly willing to do, and it was the inspiration found in watching and listening to some of the upperclassmen that finally pushed me to the point where I was able to experience the pure joy of musical performance for myself.

This is something I was reminded of just recently, watching an episode of the anime series Nodame Cantabile, in which one of the main characters, Chiaki, is making his “serious” debut as a pianist, playing Rachmaninoff’s second piano concerto under the direction of a visiting German conductor whose genius he admires. His performance is so beautiful, it inspires the other main character, Nodame (who has never been serious about her studies despite her obvious talent) to run straight to a practice room to play the piece herself. Now, those who know me well will know that 20th century Russian composers are my weakness (during my college years, I “found” Prokofiev the way other people find Jesus) but honestly, the performance really is absolutely gorgeous and it made me want to run to a practice room just like Nodame, despite having no skill at all as a pianist.

It is these moments that we as teachers must try to facilitate for students, and it’s difficult to know just how to do this. One thing we’ve discussed is trying to bring in artists from the field as often as possible to work with and inspire our students. Another is to show them DVD or video performances that might be inspiring, though I think it is extremely difficult to convey that pure joy and beauty without the energy of live performance. So here is where I open the floor for suggestions or perhaps stories of your own “ah ha!” moments. What inspired you to take that step towards true seriousness, and how would you convey that to others?

While coaching a student recently, I found myself going on at length about the importance of bringing “yourself” to an audition. As I went on, I realized that this has multiple meanings for me. Each of these is equally important and also perhaps equally contrary to what many students are taught in school.

The most obvious element to this is simply being yourself. What I think many young actors don’t realize when they first begin auditioning, is that the folks behind the table are just the same as anyone they’ve worked with on a show before. They are talented, passionate people with a love for their work, and the thing they are looking for at an audition–sometimes more than anything else,–is someone they will like. The actors they cast from this audition are people they are going to be stuck working with for the length of their show’s rehearsal period at the very least and just like you, they want to have a good time. I don’t necessarily mean “a good time” as in “hours of partying, fun, and frolic” (though with some companies that may be accurate) but this is a business people go into because they genuinely love it and part of what makes that sustainable is choosing fun, adaptable, talented people to work with. Forget everything you learned from voice recitals, college auditions, and drilling for the SETCs, and just be yourself. Be a polite, well-groomed, articulate version of yourself, yes, but don’t be afraid to be warm or to smile or laugh if something is funny, and above all show them who you are. When I was performing professionally, I was never the person who fit most perfectly into anyone’s preconceived notion of what they were looking for in an audition, but with a combination of talent and an easygoing, distinctive personality I was able to be someone people wanted to cast, and the directors I worked with would alter their preconceptions to make that happen.

Secondly, one of the most important things you can do for yourself as a professional performer is to recognize your greatest strength. At any given audition, there are going to be at least forty people (that is a completely made-up statistic, but you get my point) who fall into the same general category as you do in the minds of the auditioners. What is it that makes you special? Do you have an exceptionally fantastic singing voice? Are you an extremely strong actor? Can you dance circles around everyone else? Chances are, no matter how hard you’ve worked to shore up your skills, there is still one thing that you do better than the other people around you. Be honest with yourself about what this is, and use that in any way you can. Maybe what makes you special isn’t any one of these things, but the fact that you are genuinely competent in each (this is much rarer than you think). Or maybe the truth is that you are simply better-looking than anyone else in the room. If you’ve got it, use it. What makes you special is your foot in the door. Keep working to improve your weaker areas, but don’t hesitate to show off what’s best in an audition, and don’t be ashamed to take steps to cover up those weaknesses. If you are worried you can’t hit that high “A” every time, don’t sing a song that requires it. Find the piece that shows off your strength and nail it at every audition.

Lastly, and this is the one that’s going to get me in trouble, don’t let ideas of perfection train your uniqueness out of you. Some of your teachers may hate me for saying this, but sometimes your faults are what make your talent unique. I was listening to Rufus Wainwright in the car today. He’s one of my favorite singers, though his technique is terrible. He barely opens his mouth, giving him a lazy, nasal tone. He’s a heavy smoker, which makes his mid-range raspy and kills his breath control (this is most obvious in live performance). He slides all over the place, like he’s singing with a slow drawl. It is all these things, however, that make him sound like Rufus Wainwright and the truth is, I absolutely love that sound. I can’t get enough of it. I’d even go so far as to say that his studio recording of “Poses” is one of the loveliest performances in my entire CD collection. Now, I’m not suggesting that you should all start smoking and stop opening your mouths when you sing (no, please no), and certainly Rufus’ particular characteristics are not things generally accepted in theater. What I am saying is that there may be something unique about your talent that is contrary to accepted norms and it’s not necessarily something you should get rid of, at least not entirely. If it makes singing, acting, etc. harder (like Rufus’ smoking), then absolutely you should. And yes, if you want to get first class chorus work, you’d better work to have that perfect voice. But if you want to be remembered, sometimes that little imperfection is what will push you over the edge. If you think this is the case, don’t fear it. Use it. Even as you’re working to be your best, you want to be the best you, not someone else.

As you train for a professional career in theater, remember that the instrument for your work is you. Never lose sight of who that is and don’t underestimate its importance to your success.