Voice

After years of talking about it, I start regular vocal training today for the first time since 1978. At the introductory session last week, I was surprised and happy to learn that my muscle memory is intact. Every time the teacher gave me a note, I was able to make the correction immediately.  My body remembers.

I'm thinking today about my last voice teacher Mr. Stewart Brady, one of the great vocal coaches of his generation. In 1976, I began studying with a small acting conservatory in San Francisco. During my second year, they cast me in a musical adaptation of The Cantebury Tales as the Prioress. I was to sing a song that was right at the top of my range.  After I was cast, my director arranged for me to study with Mr. Brady.  I couldn't afford his fee and so they worked out some kind of scholarship, bless their hearts.

For eight weeks, I drove to Pacific Heights and studied with him in his astonishing, antique-filled mansion. Walking into that house was like walking into a museum. I'd never experienced anything even remotely like it. Oddly enough, I found a photo of his music room on another blog. Imagine uncultured and unsophisticated teenage me walking into this palace:

I was, of course, completely intimidated, but he immediately put me at ease.  He was an odd little man.  He must have been in his 70s when I met him, maybe older. He had been a child prodigy who toured the world singing concerts, but  he quit performing at age 13.His snow-white sideburns were groomed into perfect corkscrew curls, kind of a cross between hippie and Hasidim. He called me "darling" or "dear child" and, when I did something well, he would clap his hands and cheer "Brava! Bravissima!"   I had been singing as a second alto since childhood, but Mr. Brady immediately pegged me as mezzo-soprano. He taught me to de-emphasize my chest resonance and develop my head resonance to produce a lighter, sweeter tone. It worked. It was magical.

He once said to me,  "You have the kind of voice that most people enjoy, and I don't understand why."  He didn't mean it as an insult.  He was used to training world-renowned opera singers. We both knew he was completely out of my league but, even though he outclassed me by miles, he was kind, welcoming, absolutely brilliant, and generous with his knowledge. He taught me to treasure my voice as a beautiful and fluid instrument. Like a zen master, he taught me to let go and breathe.

I've never studied meditation techniques, but I learned to sing, a strangely similar discipline.

When I was young, I had a three octave range and could place my voice anywhere within that range with absolutely precision, clarity and ease. I didn't have to think about it, I just hit the note. Those days are gone; I won't get that voice back. But I can set up a regular regimen of exercises to repair my technique, reduce strain, and get a few more years out of this old instrument. I still have a few songs left to sing.