DOUGLAS WEBSTER
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The Maestro is Dead. Long live the master.

3/13/2018

3 Comments

 
Picture

 


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Nicola Rossi Lemeni


11/6/1920 – 3/12/1991


​My favorite photo of him.


 ­­­­Nicola Rossi Lemeni
11/6/1920 – 3/12/1991
 
I was reminded today of an event that marked the beginning of my career. 
It wasn’t singing MASS for Bernstein at Tanglewood, or the first time I sang it in Carnegie Hall, the Kennedy Center or any other ‘debut’. 
It occured offstage in the 5th Avenue Theater in Seattle.
 
The week prior, I was enjoying the second year on tour with Les Miz.  Still, and forever, my favorite story to sing.  I was covering Valjean every other weekend and, in the meantime, was rocking the world in the ensemble of the biggest show on the planet.  It was bliss-filled payback for six years of opera and recital training.
 
If you’ve seen a dog off the leash, you know how I feel singing Les Miz.
 
The morning after our first show in Seattle, I received a call from Indiana. 
The graduate secretary was a pal and she knew where to find me.
 
“Hi, Doug.  It’s Jan…” 
 
She gave me a few seconds to let it sink in.
“You know why I’m calling. He passed, yesterday.”
 
Nicola Rossi Lemeni was my teacher. My mentor. And most cherished, he was my friend.  "Maestro" in the studio. "Professor Rossi Lemeni when Miss Zeani was around.  And for us, amongst ourselves, he was, "Rossi".  A teacher never gets to choose his pet name.  But he seemed ok with it.  Miss Zeani hated it.

​I was never one of the big-voiced baritones destined to cash their checks across from Lincoln Center.  I was a theater guy with an operatic color to his voice.  A recitalist in training with no market for recitals.


‘Rossi’ never faulted me for it.  He encouraged it.  Once, he told me,

“When I grew up in Italy, my music was opera.  It was my passion. It became my world.  You, are an American.  The music that fires your passion is musical theater.  Follow it. Take every thing you know from this studio and infuse your music with colors, timbre and nuance.
Then, when your voice is older, and settled, come back to opera.  And bring everything you know to your characters,
 
I arrived in Bloomington, from Seattle, on the day of the memorial service.  At the close of it, Tim Noble sang. God bless him, I don’t know how he got through it.  No way I could have. Then, Rossi Lemeni sang.  A recording of an old Russian song. That’s when it started to hurt.
 
Two hours later, I was standing in the home of Rossi Lemeni and Virginia Zeani.  Nicolas Rivenq was with me.  I had called him in Paris so he would not have to learn about it from the newspaper. He looked at me and said,

“He’s not here.”
“No, I don’t feel it either.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“Good idea.”
“What are you driving? I took a cab.”
“A Miata.”
“So, how fast does it go?”
I handed Nicolas the keys,
“Let’s find out.”

We dropped the top and drove out of Bloomington on a hilly two-lane farm road as fast and as far as was required until we were both cold and free of our gloom.  At which point, we drove back to our favorite bar and spent the next hours catching up on each other’s lives.
 
What pained me the most, was that, the previous year,  Rossi Lemeni and Miss Zeani had driven down to Louisville, Kentucky to catch the Les Miz tour for the Sunday matinee.  My second performance as Valjean.
 
It had been ok.  I was a puppy in a dog’s suit.  But I sang it well. Yet, it wasn’t MY Valjean.  Not yet. And I wanted to show him what I could ultimately do with the role.  And what I had learned from him and my pedigree.
 
For the next months, every time I sang Valjean, the sound engineer would make a tape of it for me to study. Each time, I would try something different. A nuance, a fuller sound, a full-on operatic blow.  A pianissimo falsetto made possible by close mic'ing not done (yet) in opera. I tailored Valjean to fit my voice and physicality.
 
I sent one of the better tapes off to my former pianist/partner in Bloomington for her to hear.  I sent one to my high school teacher in Colorado.  To show him how his investment was paying off.
 
But, I never sent one to Rossi Lemeni.  The performances were never good enough.  Never worthy of what he, in my mind, would have expected of my talent and training.  Close, but never perfect.  So, as I was flying to Indiana for his funeral, I realized, I had missed my chance to show him what an operatically trained voice could do with musical theater.
What I had done with the legacy he had passed-on to me.
 
I returned to Seattle to the tour.  As it happened, I was on for Valjean my first show back.
Before walking onto the stage, I was in no mind to sing. I wanted to call Rossi and ask him, “What do you do when your spirit is just not with you?”
 
And, in that moment, I realized, he would not be there again to answer my calls, or make time for me when I flew in for a day to work with him. No more talking over a Bear’s Place soup and sandwich special with iced tea after my lesson. The price of which was the only fee he would accept from me.
 
Later on, after the funeral, Miss Zeani took me to his closet and invited me to take one of his jackets.  I took the red one.  Anyone reading this will know which one.  It still had the fake sugar packet, squirreled away from his lunches out.  She also gave me a ring.  One he had received from Chaliapin’s daughter.
 
The Maestro was gone.  And whatever was within me, would have to serve.  The artistic community and lineage he represented: Toscanini, Serafin, Karajan, Callas, Tebaldi, DeStefano, Corelli, Chaliapin… and Zeani.  This was now my responsibility.  My burden.  My Artistry.
 
I was twenty-eight years old.  And I was an Artist.  I claimed it.
And I took the stage.
 
Later, as the piano and violin were playing the intro to Bring Him Home, I began a private ritual that continues today. Before my first breath to begin the song, I said aloud, sotto voce, “per Nicola”.
 
Six weeks after his death, I posted my notice and returned to New York.  It was time to step out of the chorus and follow my voice.
 
As I am writing this, twenty-seven years later, my screen is growing blurred.  Why should I be crying now?  And suddenly feel at a loss.  I miss my friend.  My mentor.  And the stories and pearls of wisdom he did not get around to share with me.
I’ve technically, ‘made it’ in my career.  Been there; sung that. I am a master of my craft.  I’ve even, ‘professed’ at it. And yet, there was so much more I could have learned. There always is.  That is what keeps us on edge.  Leaning into our careers, not resting back on our successes. 

There are still lessons to be learned. Failures to endure.  Strength to reclaim.  Artistry to be served.

The Maestro is dead. Long live the master.

 
Post script:  Some years following his funeral, I met with my pianist-partner in New York.  We walked along Riverside Park.  Catching up.  Pondering the choices she and I had made, professional and personal, that took us in separate directions.
 
When I told her of my deep regret that Rossi had never heard my Valjean sung as I finally could, she stopped walking.  She turned to me and said,

“But, Doug.  He listened to your Bring Him Home in the hospital. I wanted to tell you after the memorial, but you took off.”
“But, I never sent him a tape.”
“You sent one to me. I brought it to him. And left the tape machine with him so he could play it whenever he wanted to hear it again.”
​
“He heard your Valjean.”
 
 
 

3 Comments

The vital power of permission

3/18/2017

1 Comment

 
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.



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​The cast of MASS premiere performance at Carnegie Hall (2002) featuring the cast from The Vatican (2000), Collegiate Chorale and Orchestra of St. Lukes.
Conducted by Robert Bass
Picture
Cast of Bernstein's MASS at Carnegie Hall (2002)
1 Comment

Why is Maria Callas so special?

3/9/2017

1 Comment

 

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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