May the best voice win

The other night I watched the most wonderful show on PBS. Called "The Audition," it was a documentary that followed a group of aspiring young opera singers as they prepared to compete in the 2007 Metropolitan Opera's National Council competition. Five winners are ultimately selected, out of about 1500 hopefuls across the country. What we the audience were treated to were the excitment, the musings, the practice sessions, of the approximately-20 semi-finalists who had made it to the New York audition. Filming took place during the week preceding their final performances, which would determine the winners.

Absolutely fascinating. I love behind-the-scenes theatrical films anyway, and this one had the added benefit of all this splendid singing. Every one of those young people had a beautiful, beautifully trained voice. It was also interesting meeting the different personalities. There were three young women who were the traditional operatically-hefty -- one of them commented to the camera that she knew there was more of an emphasis these days on physically attractive singers, but she hoped the judges would be concentrating on singing ability, and not on "the weight issue" -- whereas one of the young woman who was very slender indeed, admitted that she had a problem getting the fullness of sound that some parts demanded. The oldest in the group (at 30), was a black man from Houston who had had to take time out from his training for several years because his financial situation became so desperate the sheriff was knocking on his door. Initially I was least impressed with his performance, but as the week went on, thanks to various work-shops they had for the contestants, his self-confidence seemed to increase, and his performance improved.

The contestant we saw the most of was easily the most neurotically bent on winning; his ambition was palpable and his paranoia that "politics" would interfere with honest judging rather sad. When the five winners were announced at the end, his name was the last to be called, and there was a lengthy pause before it was -- indeed, some-one in the group still waiting in the wings muttered "Is that all?" -- and when his name was called you had to breath a sigh of relief, as he gave a great cry of exultation, and strode onto the stage. For my goodness, if he hadn't won, what would he have done?

In an earlier Note (Oct. 24, 2009) I had wondered aloud what made some men want to sing for a living. You really have to wonder that about men who want to be opera singers. If nothing else, how many boys are even exposed to opera? One of the Metropolitan Opera people who gave a pep talk to the contestants mentioned the fact that a recent survey had shown that the average age of opera goers was 65. "Twenty years ago it was 45," he said. "Our audience is aging on us." In your typical American family opera is just not part of the musical scene, to the extent that there is a musical scene. So the pool of opera lovers -- people who would expose their children to opera -- is very small. And from that small pool come this group of boys who like it enough, and like singing that way, to try to make a career of it. To me, amazing.

I was so pleased at the end, when we were told where the winners and the other finalists were one year on. One of the hefty women, Amber Wagner, had signed with the Lyric Opera of Chicago. Angela Meade, the hefty, but actually quite beautiful, woman who had been con-cerned that her weight would be held against her, had stepped in as understudy at the Metropolitan itself. Our rabidly driven Michael Fabiano, had appeared at Teatro alla Scala, more commonly referred to as La Scala. You can actually catch Fabiano singing on YouTube (I tried to insert a link here but had no luck -- but an Internet search under his name will bring up several videos of him singing.) He really has a fabulous voice, and when he won in 2007 was only 22 years old, which both his fellow contestants and the judges commented on with disbelieving admiration.

The news that made me happiest was that Ryan Smith, he of all the financial woes, had had his debut at the Metropolitan Opera.

And then, I was devastated by the dedication at the close of the program -- to Ryan Smith, who died of lymphatic cancer in Nov. 2008. No question that Fate has a twisted sense of the ironic. The only thing you can feel good about is that at least Smith had his 15 minutes of glory. He was on top of the world, the world he had chosen, for only a moment. But for a moment.