Nicola Rossi Lemeni
11/6/1920 – 3/12/1991
My favorite photo of him.
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Nicola Rossi Lemeni 11/6/1920 – 3/12/1991 My favorite photo of him. Nicola Rossi Lemeni
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Sometimes, all you need is a bit of permission. Conductor, Robert Bass contacted me in 2002 to inquire if I would be interested in helping him with a project. He intended to present Leonard Bernstein's MASS at Carnegie Hall. The concert would be a vehicle for his Collegiate Chorale. We were acquaintances from our daily drop-offs at the Special Music School where our kids were enrolled. (That school inspired countless collaborations that were cooked-up while waiting on the sidewalk for our various progeny.) For the Carnegie performance, he wanted help assembling a cast of soloists and production support. I had already been at this for over a decade, so it was only a matter of opening my phone book and calling up the team I had assembled for The Vatican DVD project two seasons before. It turns out, this would be the Carnegie Hall premiere of Bernstein's MASS. I brought in my favorite stage director to act as stage manager and my lighting designer-partner to do what he could with the thirteen available instruments. Mostly, I wanted them in the room and on the program for what was to come later. All cast members who were available immediately said yes. I was only needing to replace four cast members unavailable for the dates. As per my S.O.P., I put the call out to my cast to recommend replacements. This 'in-house' manner of casting has always served me well and invariably works to strengthen the ensemble bond. We did hold an open call audition for the two of the open roles just to be fair to any who would want to be considered. There is nothing more dispiriting than learning of an opportunity only to realize that you never had a shot anyway. So, we had a cast. My designer created a 'mood' in the room and the stage director/manager has taped-out the dimensions of the stage on the floor of the rehearsal hall to match the confines of the Carnegie stage. Three days before the concert, one of my 'new hires' called me with a problem. His was the most difficult role in the ensemble, outside that of the Celebrant. He sang it beautifully. But he was terrified of being 'off book' and missing one or more of the tricky rhythms and verses. I heard him. And told him I had a simple solution: We would all hold a book. He was a bit incredulous at first. Citing the fact that most of the cast outside himself had performed their roles at The Vatican and elsewhere, multiple times. And how should he feel being the cause of them to 'hold book' during a concert they had already memorized. Again, the answer was simple: "Because we are a team. And we are only as strong as the weakest of us. You sing the hell out of this score. No one has sung it better. If it would support you to be free in your interpretation to hold a book, then we all will. Some may never look at theirs. But we are a team. And this is a concert performance anyway." The next day was the Final Dress. As I was working on a pretty nasty cold, my understudy and long-time collaborator was singing the Celebrant. I was sitting out in the audience, taking notes and enjoying the performance. When it came to the dicey solo that my castmate had called about, he calmly looked out into the audience, reached out to his score on the music stand in front of him, and closed the book. He sang the shit out of the Non Credo. Not a word or rhythm dropped. Later, he found me to answer the question he expected me to ask: What happened? "I called you looking for an answer to my fear. What you gave me was permission. Once I knew that I could hold the book, my fear abated. And in the absence of fear...courage. It was almost immediate. Thank you." He was fantastic in the concert. I have never had the opportunity to work with the singer since that production. But I have thought of him often. And the lesson I learned from that experience has made me a better producer, director and singer.
I had not intended this to be a blog post. Nor anything more than a simple reply to an online question posted by a young singer. Yet, here it is.I live in Portland, Oregon. When I am not otherwise on the road, I sing for senior retirement communities on Friday afternoons. Before anyone thinks, 'Ah, how sweet...' This is a strictly mercenary endeavor. I am a lazy singer and prefer to be paid to exercise. So, a few times a month, I sing through my concert (classical and pops) rep with backing tracks (Search iTunes karaoke Prague Symphony), and work through my new stage patter. For this, they pay me $150. It’s like getting paid to go to the gym. I get a vocal work-out and they get a show beyond the usual kumbaya fare they are accustomed to. AND I do not have to get on a f***ing airplane to sing. Win-Win.
After singing for a senior retirement community, I spend whatever time I have to talk with the audience members. Music kicks loose memories. And these people really need to talk about it. So, I listen. Last summer I met a retired engineer who attended the first performances at the Chicago Lyric in 1954. My mentor, Nicola Rossi-Lemeni was singing opposite Maria Callas. I asked the guy if he remembered my teacher. Nope. What about Callas? He said, “I was only there by chance. I was an engineer in town on business and my friends took me. I knew nothing about opera. But it didn’t matter. I was enthralled by her. At the first intermission, I literally ran to the box office and bought tickets for every performance Callas was singing that week. During the second intermission, I walked outside to find a line at the box office, of audience members who had the same idea I’d had, that stretched down the block. She later sang a benefit gala. I can close my eyes even now and see her walking off stage, the train of her gown trailing behind her. Maria Callas. I’ve never since experienced anything like it.” That’s your answer. It’s not in the recordings or the style of acting. It’s in the undefinable human magic that crosses the footlights and resonates within the bodies and imagination of the audience. It’s the aural equivalent of sand painting. Sure, recordings can capture some of it. But it would be like asking why the photocopy of the Mona Lisa just doesn’t do it for you. It’s all there, but it isn’t. Because YOU are not THERE. And sadly, you will never have that opportunity. I feel guilty for having had the chance to work with Rossi-Lemeni and the others I chased across Europe and America for lessons. It’s a generation long gone. Yet because of them, I am honor-bound to teach. It’s a visceral art based upon mentorships and the sharing of inspiration between master and apprentice and between artist and audience. Here’s my advice for you: Open your ears and heart and imagination to every singer you hear. Listen not only to the CDs and LPs. But find a Victrola and experience the visceral essence of Caruso, Ruffo and Galli-Curci singing back at you. It’s possible you may never quite, ‘get it’. But then some cannot see in color no matter how eagerly they try. |
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