Right, so lately this blog has been less about love, life, art and cricket, and more A Diary of an Australian Tenor in Holland, but there we are - I'm sure I'll address the others in due course.
Had a rehearsal today for a gig that I'm singing tomorrow. It's in the middle of bloody nowhere - Heerhugowaard, which is an hour and a half by train from The Hague and then another ten minutes by car, so over three hours' travel there and back. I didn't know that it would take that long when I took the gig, and neither did I realise that they wouldn't be re-imbursing my travel expenses, either. Makes the €75 that they're paying me look even more paltry - I'm going to end up about €40 in front, and given the morning rehearsal and morning service, I'm foregoing two badly-needed sleep-ins as well. Hmph. Oh well - such is the life of a newly-arrived-on-the-scene singer: I'm loathe at this stage to turn anything down, particularly if it's a solo gig (which this is), because you never know who you're going to meet, and what sort of fabulous work you'll get from doing it. Today's €75 gig less travel expenses could be tomorrow's large-scale tour, recording deal and snorting crack off super-models' backsides.
Still, I continue to be impressed by what I see in this country, and continue to find very good answers when people ask me, round-eyed, "why did you want to leave Australia to come HERE???" - which happens more than you'd think. Heerhugowaard is NOWHERE, and I'm not kidding. It's a back-of-beyond, uninteresting, sparsely-populated, nothing sort of a place - an agricultural town that was established on account of the local cabbage-growing industry, or so the elderly parisioner that ferried me to and from the church proudly proclaimed. Population: fuck-all. Certainly no more than a couple of thousand, if that. And yet, despite all of this, they're remarkably well-equipped to put on Bach cantatas. The church boasted a very nice little organ, a harpsichord, a perfectly competent parish choir, and a small orchestra, who were probably all being paid but were all still local. And were playing on period instruments, for crying out loud.
This is pretty incredible, really, and more so when you consider that there are probably hundreds of churches just like this throughout the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. Can my Australian readers imagine this? No matter how healthy a parish is in a country town in Australia, you'd be lucky to find someone there who even knew what a harpsichord was, let alone for the place to actually have one. Things are better in the UK, but not much, really. This is the equivalent of someone turning up in the equivalent country town in Australia wondering if anyone plays AFL, and finding not only a club but a well-maintained ground, training facilities and a whole bunch of professional and semi-profesional players.
(.... Actually come to think of it, this probably isn't the greatest comparison. There are probably any number of places like that in Australia, and the same with football in the UK, that boast this sort of thing. But maybe it IS a useful comparison anyway, because you can see that the Dutch attachment to classical music is more or less the equal to the Anglo-Saxon attachment to sport.)
Classical music is just part of people's vocabulary here. Not EVERYONE's vocabulary, you understand - the Dutch do white trash just as well as anyone else - but it is very much part of the fabric of the community. That's why when I sang eighteen St Matthew Passions that almost all of them were sold-out, despite the fact that they're mass-produced and badly-directed. THIS IS WHY I CAME HERE. Not for the under-paid gigs that require lots of travelling nor for the bad direction of course, but for a world where classical music is part of everyone's vocabulary. A world where if I tell the man in the pub what I do for a living I don't reveal myself either as a "girl", "poofter", or at the very best, quaint oddity with the unusual taste in vocational activities, who then has to justify his career-choices to everyone. It's almost like presenting art and music actually holds relevance, somehow, as opposed being part of some sort of obscure niche.
I gotta tell you, it's awfully refreshing.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Over-heard in a rehearsal break
Swiss soprano: This conductor seems quite good. He's very efficient.
Me: Sure. A friend told me that he's a bit shifty, though. Not sure why she told me that, mind you - don't know why it should be relevant in this context.
SS: Shifty? What does that mean? You mean he moves the tempo around a lot or something?
Me: Well, no - "shifty" means not particularly trust-worthy. A bit dishonest.
At that precise moment, said conductor walked into the canteen, helped himself to a Coke from the fridge, and took off without paying for it.
True story.
Me: Sure. A friend told me that he's a bit shifty, though. Not sure why she told me that, mind you - don't know why it should be relevant in this context.
SS: Shifty? What does that mean? You mean he moves the tempo around a lot or something?
Me: Well, no - "shifty" means not particularly trust-worthy. A bit dishonest.
At that precise moment, said conductor walked into the canteen, helped himself to a Coke from the fridge, and took off without paying for it.
True story.
On Rehearsal Technique
This may not be that interesting to some. It's a real occupational hazard for me, though, so it's fairly close to my heart.
If I ever grow even more grizzled and cranky than I already am, and decide that music just isn't for me after all, it will probably be because of singers' bad rehearsal technique. To echo some of the remarks I made in in this post, you get the idea that when you reach a certain level that some things will become easier, better, and more professional, and you can tear your hair out when the opposite occurs. Below is a short list.
1. Talking in rehearsals.
This is my number one bugbear, and a genuine case where it seems to definitely get worse the more professional the context is. Being quiet, unfortunately, runs against the grain of many singers, who quite often have very short attention spans and are the worst kind of attention-seekers. Actors are very much the same, of course. Any lull in the action is an opportunity to draw attention to yourself, usually by the most inane means possible (I'm a bad, bad man for saying this, but I tend to find that gay men are particularly bad at this and a certain brand of particularly effeminite gay man will stretch "inane" to its absolute breaking point. Tell me I'm a homophobe, but I figure that if I'm prepared to admit that tenors are annoying, then I've won myself some license). This is, of course, completely counter-productive, and it ends up making everyone's job that much harder. Having to wait for everyone to shut up so you can hear what the conductor is trying to say make EVERY FUCKING TIME THE MUSIC STOPS can just do your head in. I have learnt lately that the best way to deal with the situation is to not talk to anyone at all, ever, unless it's about the music. I genuinely ignore half the things that are said to me. I'm sure people think I'm an absolute arse for doing it, but it makes them stop talking to me. And hey, if you're the sort of cretin that dribbles inane bullshit when you should be concentrating on the music, I don't want to be friends with you anyway.
2. Talking when the orchestra is tuning (you know what this is. It's the "whhhheeeeeeeeeeooooooooorrreeeeaaaaaaaaeeeee" noise they all make before concerts).
This is every bit as annoying as the first, but it doesn't happen as much, so it comes second. I never want to cringe more when I'm in a chorus and no-one can sit still for 30 seconds whilst the orchestra tune - something that the entire ensemble relies on for a successful rehearsal/performance. At some point I'm going to make a sign that says "IS NOT TALKING OR MAKING UNNECESSARY NOISE" and hold it up whilst the orchestra tune. How some instrumentalists don't become violent over this, I will never know. I would.
Here's an exercise that might help illustrate my point. Get a few mates together. Get one of you to hum a note. Something that's not too high or low. Get everyone to sing EXACTLY the same note - no approximations. Involve women and men, and women and men with high and low speaking voices so that people are singing at different registers. Now do it with 40 people. Still singing exactly the same note? Not when there are another forty people sitting behind you talking shit and making stupid extraneous noise, you're not!
3. One-upmanship.
"You're getting that bit wrong!!!" Oh! Oh really? Well, whilst we're making observations, isn't it also true that I just punched you in the face?
Anyone that has ever done this deserves.... well, you get the idea. I will never understand why complete strangers, or at least passing acquaintances, think that it's appropriate to point out their colleagues' mistakes. It seems that some people keep a running tally. To be honest, I will never understand how they even NOTICE, most of the time. When I'm rehearsing difficult music, particularly when I'm singing it for the first time, I'm often so wrapped up in what I'm doing that bothering to listen to what the guy beside me is doing is the last thing I do. Of course you HEAR the mistakes - but finding the energy to actually make the mental note of "Carrot got that wrong!"whilst the music is going on, so you can go back to it later and smarmily point it out to him is going the extra yard, don't you think? ... Or maybe it's just really, really stupid and petty.
Of course there's a line, and quietly talking to someone when they're obviously a little confused and would actually appreciate the help is fine, but - that's not what a lot of people are about. Today's rehearsal involved me sitting next to a guy who obviously had it in his head that he was going to be quality control for our section - the section of him and me. To cover up his insecurities, he had obviously taken the attitude that I was going to be the brawn (i.e. I could actually sing) and he was going to be the brain (because he can't), and point out my every mistake. This culminated in an amusing piece of by-play about pronunciation - after the first run through of a particular piece, when the word in question came up only twice -
We sang it again.
Didn't say the last part.
Should've.
To sum up, though, the thing that bothers me most about rehearsing is that everyone seems to miss the point. Isn't the whole idea to concentrate together and try and make the most progress? You're at WORK - you're not there to impress your mates, that's for the breaks (or the post-concert pint - which no-one seems to do in Holland, *sobs*!). And so annoying, asinine dickheads that refuse to concentrate, talk shit through the entire process, and/or try to set themselves up as the arbiter of all standards and mistake-filters really piss me off. I suppose, like in any number of things, I should just learn to chill out a bit more. But just like Richie in his lunch with David in "The Final Dig"-
If I ever grow even more grizzled and cranky than I already am, and decide that music just isn't for me after all, it will probably be because of singers' bad rehearsal technique. To echo some of the remarks I made in in this post, you get the idea that when you reach a certain level that some things will become easier, better, and more professional, and you can tear your hair out when the opposite occurs. Below is a short list.
1. Talking in rehearsals.
This is my number one bugbear, and a genuine case where it seems to definitely get worse the more professional the context is. Being quiet, unfortunately, runs against the grain of many singers, who quite often have very short attention spans and are the worst kind of attention-seekers. Actors are very much the same, of course. Any lull in the action is an opportunity to draw attention to yourself, usually by the most inane means possible (I'm a bad, bad man for saying this, but I tend to find that gay men are particularly bad at this and a certain brand of particularly effeminite gay man will stretch "inane" to its absolute breaking point. Tell me I'm a homophobe, but I figure that if I'm prepared to admit that tenors are annoying, then I've won myself some license). This is, of course, completely counter-productive, and it ends up making everyone's job that much harder. Having to wait for everyone to shut up so you can hear what the conductor is trying to say make EVERY FUCKING TIME THE MUSIC STOPS can just do your head in. I have learnt lately that the best way to deal with the situation is to not talk to anyone at all, ever, unless it's about the music. I genuinely ignore half the things that are said to me. I'm sure people think I'm an absolute arse for doing it, but it makes them stop talking to me. And hey, if you're the sort of cretin that dribbles inane bullshit when you should be concentrating on the music, I don't want to be friends with you anyway.
2. Talking when the orchestra is tuning (you know what this is. It's the "whhhheeeeeeeeeeooooooooorrreeeeaaaaaaaaeeeee" noise they all make before concerts).
This is every bit as annoying as the first, but it doesn't happen as much, so it comes second. I never want to cringe more when I'm in a chorus and no-one can sit still for 30 seconds whilst the orchestra tune - something that the entire ensemble relies on for a successful rehearsal/performance. At some point I'm going to make a sign that says "IS NOT TALKING OR MAKING UNNECESSARY NOISE" and hold it up whilst the orchestra tune. How some instrumentalists don't become violent over this, I will never know. I would.
Here's an exercise that might help illustrate my point. Get a few mates together. Get one of you to hum a note. Something that's not too high or low. Get everyone to sing EXACTLY the same note - no approximations. Involve women and men, and women and men with high and low speaking voices so that people are singing at different registers. Now do it with 40 people. Still singing exactly the same note? Not when there are another forty people sitting behind you talking shit and making stupid extraneous noise, you're not!
3. One-upmanship.
"You're getting that bit wrong!!!" Oh! Oh really? Well, whilst we're making observations, isn't it also true that I just punched you in the face?
Anyone that has ever done this deserves.... well, you get the idea. I will never understand why complete strangers, or at least passing acquaintances, think that it's appropriate to point out their colleagues' mistakes. It seems that some people keep a running tally. To be honest, I will never understand how they even NOTICE, most of the time. When I'm rehearsing difficult music, particularly when I'm singing it for the first time, I'm often so wrapped up in what I'm doing that bothering to listen to what the guy beside me is doing is the last thing I do. Of course you HEAR the mistakes - but finding the energy to actually make the mental note of "Carrot got that wrong!"whilst the music is going on, so you can go back to it later and smarmily point it out to him is going the extra yard, don't you think? ... Or maybe it's just really, really stupid and petty.
Of course there's a line, and quietly talking to someone when they're obviously a little confused and would actually appreciate the help is fine, but - that's not what a lot of people are about. Today's rehearsal involved me sitting next to a guy who obviously had it in his head that he was going to be quality control for our section - the section of him and me. To cover up his insecurities, he had obviously taken the attitude that I was going to be the brawn (i.e. I could actually sing) and he was going to be the brain (because he can't), and point out my every mistake. This culminated in an amusing piece of by-play about pronunciation - after the first run through of a particular piece, when the word in question came up only twice -
Him: It's "feste"
Me: Yes, that's right.
Him: Well, you're not getting it right.
We sang it again.
Him: It's fesTE!
Me: That's what I'm singing!
Him: No, you're singing something different.
Me: Look mate, it's "feste al Nume santo" and the "te-al" is on a quaver. you're probably hearing me sing "te-al".
Him: .... Oh.
Me: And by the way, you can barely sing above an F, you've got a shitty technique, you're always late, and that beret makes you look ridiculous. Get a life.
Didn't say the last part.
Should've.
To sum up, though, the thing that bothers me most about rehearsing is that everyone seems to miss the point. Isn't the whole idea to concentrate together and try and make the most progress? You're at WORK - you're not there to impress your mates, that's for the breaks (or the post-concert pint - which no-one seems to do in Holland, *sobs*!). And so annoying, asinine dickheads that refuse to concentrate, talk shit through the entire process, and/or try to set themselves up as the arbiter of all standards and mistake-filters really piss me off. I suppose, like in any number of things, I should just learn to chill out a bit more. But just like Richie in his lunch with David in "The Final Dig"-
It just really shits me.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Injuries
I bought a book yesterday. It's called "Why Don't Penguins' Feet Freeze?" and it's a compilation of letters that have been sent to the New Scientist magazine as part of the "Last Word" column - a forum for readers to send in scientific questions that fellow readers then answer. It's great - it's full of all sorts of useless stuff, like "what time is it in the North Pole", "why does clingfilm stick to glass but not metal", "why does hot water freeze faster than cold (apparently it's true, and no-one's come up with a definitive answer yet)", "why is snot green (a personal favourite)", "what is the diameter of a bolt of lightning" and so on and so forth. It's great for train journeys to gigs - not sure it was worth €14.99 though.
It's good material for a blogger to read, because everything's bite-sized, and very little of it is straight-forward, so there's often lengthy discourse and hypothesising from the respondants. They're the sort of questions that children ask (and in fact some of them ARE asked by children, which is why I now know why sea-water is salty) to really wind their parents up at inopportune moments. Above all though, it invites people to crap on endlessly about their pet subjects with the view to convincing everyone how clever and interesting they are, as though anyone cares less (sound familiar?), and I kept getting the image of the people who asked the question writing back and saying "yeah ok, thanks, but did you have to be such a tosser about it?" Anyway, it's all very much like blogging, so it kinda puts you in the mood to write something.
It might sound a little sophomoric, but whilst I was reading all of this, and being invited to look at my world in a slightly more enquiring way, I began to consider the topic of human emotion, and emotional pain/loss in particular. I half expected someone to have written in asking for a psychological and/or physiological explanation for how broken hearts work (haven't come across it yet, but I'm only two-thirds of the way through). I came up with the following.
I've often considered that the word "injury" in its generic sense is used a little too sparingly. As a singer, I often think that it should be used to describe vocal problems more. We should be able to say "can't sing - injured", as opposed to "I have a cold/infection/nasty rash, pus-oozing nodules on my perineum, my budgie died, it's the worst thing in the world, how will I survive, waffle, waffle, waffle, why, why why?" and so forth. Not only does "injured" save everyone valuable time and patience, I think it sums up the situation quite well, too, I think. Much the same as when an athlete is injured, the injury at the very best inhibits the person from doing what they by definition are supposed to do - and often stops them from doing it completely. Consequently, an injured athlete to a point actually becomes an ex-athlete, or depending on the severity of the ailment, a temporary non-athlete. The same applies to a singer - if you can't sing, what are you, then? And this is why being injured is a rotten state to be in for either individual - it can seem like you're missing something hard to define but quintessentially YOU - and somehow you are less of yourself by consequence.
I have been feeling the same way about emotional pain, grief, and loss, and that "injured" might just as easily sum up that situation as well. When you're down, and particularly when you're down about a specific thing or person, you don't feel yourself then, either. You wander through life lacking energy or drive, and the most mundane tasks seem that much more difficult. Nothing is much fun, everything's a bit wan and colourless and essentially you are less of yourself. It can seem to both you and others that until whatever/whoever it is that was taken away returns, you won't quite be the same. The connection is not completely seamless of course - a runner with a bad hamstring can't run, a singer with layrngitis can't sing, a person with a broken heart can't - what? Live? Not really, but I guess the answer is live successfully and happily, and that's what we're all here for, after all. So it still works. And as with all other injuries, the most important thing is to give yourself time and rest. Unfortunately it's pretty difficult to rest from being you - but that's probably why emotional pain is so difficult to deal with.
There would be other benefits to thinking about it in these terms, namely that it would save everyone a lot of awkwardness. I've found that as a man, despite what the post-feminist world tells me, talking about any sort of angst or pain, no matter how genuine, is a good recipe for people to start shuffling their feet and looking for the nearest exit. As a hot-blooded, Alpha-male ever alert to the call to action, you're supposed to be off slaying mammoth and doing stock-market deals, not fannying about talking about your FEELINGS, for crying out loud. It just makes people uncomfortable. I can't count the amount of times I've witnessed women do it, though - it's just one of life's little double-standards. So I think that if we could just describe ourselves as being "injured" it would make things a whole lot easier. The below (very hypothetical) conversation might help illustrate my point:
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Broke up with my girl over the weekend.
A: Jeez.
B: Yeah. I'm not really coping that well, to be honest. Never realised it could feel this bad! I just.... don't know why it didn't work out, you know? And now I can't eat, or sleep, I've got no energy, everything's gone to shit, I can't concentrate on my work - I wish she'd just come back to me, but she won't, and..... well, things aren't so great. It's really tough. If you've got any advice, let me know.
A: Well, you could start by getting a grip on yourself, ya big poof!!
OR
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Carrying a bit of an injury at the moment.
A: Ah. That's no good! Went throught the same thing myself last year. Do you want to go and get drunk?
B: Great! Is there any football on?
Now doesn't that just seem easier?
It's good material for a blogger to read, because everything's bite-sized, and very little of it is straight-forward, so there's often lengthy discourse and hypothesising from the respondants. They're the sort of questions that children ask (and in fact some of them ARE asked by children, which is why I now know why sea-water is salty) to really wind their parents up at inopportune moments. Above all though, it invites people to crap on endlessly about their pet subjects with the view to convincing everyone how clever and interesting they are, as though anyone cares less (sound familiar?), and I kept getting the image of the people who asked the question writing back and saying "yeah ok, thanks, but did you have to be such a tosser about it?" Anyway, it's all very much like blogging, so it kinda puts you in the mood to write something.
It might sound a little sophomoric, but whilst I was reading all of this, and being invited to look at my world in a slightly more enquiring way, I began to consider the topic of human emotion, and emotional pain/loss in particular. I half expected someone to have written in asking for a psychological and/or physiological explanation for how broken hearts work (haven't come across it yet, but I'm only two-thirds of the way through). I came up with the following.
I've often considered that the word "injury" in its generic sense is used a little too sparingly. As a singer, I often think that it should be used to describe vocal problems more. We should be able to say "can't sing - injured", as opposed to "I have a cold/infection/nasty rash, pus-oozing nodules on my perineum, my budgie died, it's the worst thing in the world, how will I survive, waffle, waffle, waffle, why, why why?" and so forth. Not only does "injured" save everyone valuable time and patience, I think it sums up the situation quite well, too, I think. Much the same as when an athlete is injured, the injury at the very best inhibits the person from doing what they by definition are supposed to do - and often stops them from doing it completely. Consequently, an injured athlete to a point actually becomes an ex-athlete, or depending on the severity of the ailment, a temporary non-athlete. The same applies to a singer - if you can't sing, what are you, then? And this is why being injured is a rotten state to be in for either individual - it can seem like you're missing something hard to define but quintessentially YOU - and somehow you are less of yourself by consequence.
I have been feeling the same way about emotional pain, grief, and loss, and that "injured" might just as easily sum up that situation as well. When you're down, and particularly when you're down about a specific thing or person, you don't feel yourself then, either. You wander through life lacking energy or drive, and the most mundane tasks seem that much more difficult. Nothing is much fun, everything's a bit wan and colourless and essentially you are less of yourself. It can seem to both you and others that until whatever/whoever it is that was taken away returns, you won't quite be the same. The connection is not completely seamless of course - a runner with a bad hamstring can't run, a singer with layrngitis can't sing, a person with a broken heart can't - what? Live? Not really, but I guess the answer is live successfully and happily, and that's what we're all here for, after all. So it still works. And as with all other injuries, the most important thing is to give yourself time and rest. Unfortunately it's pretty difficult to rest from being you - but that's probably why emotional pain is so difficult to deal with.
There would be other benefits to thinking about it in these terms, namely that it would save everyone a lot of awkwardness. I've found that as a man, despite what the post-feminist world tells me, talking about any sort of angst or pain, no matter how genuine, is a good recipe for people to start shuffling their feet and looking for the nearest exit. As a hot-blooded, Alpha-male ever alert to the call to action, you're supposed to be off slaying mammoth and doing stock-market deals, not fannying about talking about your FEELINGS, for crying out loud. It just makes people uncomfortable. I can't count the amount of times I've witnessed women do it, though - it's just one of life's little double-standards. So I think that if we could just describe ourselves as being "injured" it would make things a whole lot easier. The below (very hypothetical) conversation might help illustrate my point:
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Broke up with my girl over the weekend.
A: Jeez.
B: Yeah. I'm not really coping that well, to be honest. Never realised it could feel this bad! I just.... don't know why it didn't work out, you know? And now I can't eat, or sleep, I've got no energy, everything's gone to shit, I can't concentrate on my work - I wish she'd just come back to me, but she won't, and..... well, things aren't so great. It's really tough. If you've got any advice, let me know.
A: Well, you could start by getting a grip on yourself, ya big poof!!
OR
A: Hi mate. How are you doing?
B: Not so great. Carrying a bit of an injury at the moment.
A: Ah. That's no good! Went throught the same thing myself last year. Do you want to go and get drunk?
B: Great! Is there any football on?
Now doesn't that just seem easier?
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Toothpaste Files, continued.
Remember this post? My wilful boasting that after months of practice I'd finally mastered the art of brushing my teeth, Dutch style? My tips on tube storage? Saving time in the mornings? The Dutch Toothpaste Principle? Well, just when you think you've checked all the boxes of one of life's little questionnaires, bugger me if there isn't an entirely seperate section over the page that you hadn't noticed.
I haven't been sleeping very well lately. This isn't unusual - when I'm really busy performing, switching off at night is pretty difficult. The same thing happened before Christmas with the hundreds of Messiahs that I sang in, and it's happened now with the several million Passions that I've already written about. When this happens I usually have to give up on school for a bit - which is actually kinda satisfying, really - makes me feel like being a real singer, as opposed to a music student. There is another reason why getting shut-eye has been difficult, though.
Went out the other day to do a shop, as you do. Had run out of toothpaste. The fact that my flat-mate seemed to have hidden his from view was probably a tip-off that he was sick of me helping myself to his and that I should get some of my own. Visited the toiletries section of my local Albert Heijn (the Dutch equivalent of Sainsbury's although not as good), cursed the fact that they had run out of disposable razors AGAIN, and picked out a tube. It was very attractively packaged - all primary colours, called "Parodontax", and it boasted "Natuurlijk actief voor tand en tandvlees!!" in big red letters along the side of the bottle. I had no idea what that meant, but still, I was impressed - "that looks like the toothpaste of any discerning gentleman!" I cried, and added it to my shopping basket. Couldn't wait to get it home and test it out.
Went through my usual beddy-byes routine that evening- finished off my cup of hot cocoa, put my jimmy-jams on, made sure that Frederick the Bear was comfortable and in a good position to oversee my prayers on my return, and went to clean the ol' dentures. Opened the tube and squeezed a bit onto my brush. First impression was not that good to be honest - it was a sort of ugly reddish-brown colour. I don't know about you, but reddish-brown does not make my top five expected toothpaste colours - in fact maybe not even the top ten. I was willing to give it a go, though - using Dutch toothpaste had already proven to be such a growthful and rewarding experience that I wasn't going to dismiss my newest purchase on colour alone. Sadly though, worse was to come - it tasted HORRIBLE. It was SALTY.
Salty toothpaste? I mean, what the fuck???? What sort of evil mastermind thought that would be a good idea??? Just ...... THINK about that for a second.
Salty.
Toothpaste.
Those two words go together like "safari" and "suit", like "folk" and "dancing", like "parents" and "sex" like..... oh, I dunno..... "Kaspar" and "Bepke (hahahaha, in-joke)!!"
It's BAD, it's EVIL, it's all seven shades of wrong, with a few more thrown in for good measure.
And after I used it, I couldn't sleep! It was like I'd gone out and had a skinful, and helped myself to the word's biggest, saltiest kebab or Mcpolyunsaturated Fat Pizza on the way home, and then couldn't sleep because I was dehydrated, but without the fun part. And that's not the worst of it - I actually persevered with the stuff for four days, because I couldn't get to the shop! Throw in some St Matthew Passion-induced insomnia, and you have a recipe for a Kranky Karrot in the morning, I can tell you - no matter how much crappy Dutch coffee I injected intraveneously.
Thought I was getting the hang of this place. Think I've gone back to square one. They use salty toothpaste, I mean honestly. What sort of a country have a landed in???
I haven't been sleeping very well lately. This isn't unusual - when I'm really busy performing, switching off at night is pretty difficult. The same thing happened before Christmas with the hundreds of Messiahs that I sang in, and it's happened now with the several million Passions that I've already written about. When this happens I usually have to give up on school for a bit - which is actually kinda satisfying, really - makes me feel like being a real singer, as opposed to a music student. There is another reason why getting shut-eye has been difficult, though.
Went out the other day to do a shop, as you do. Had run out of toothpaste. The fact that my flat-mate seemed to have hidden his from view was probably a tip-off that he was sick of me helping myself to his and that I should get some of my own. Visited the toiletries section of my local Albert Heijn (the Dutch equivalent of Sainsbury's although not as good), cursed the fact that they had run out of disposable razors AGAIN, and picked out a tube. It was very attractively packaged - all primary colours, called "Parodontax", and it boasted "Natuurlijk actief voor tand en tandvlees!!" in big red letters along the side of the bottle. I had no idea what that meant, but still, I was impressed - "that looks like the toothpaste of any discerning gentleman!" I cried, and added it to my shopping basket. Couldn't wait to get it home and test it out.
Went through my usual beddy-byes routine that evening- finished off my cup of hot cocoa, put my jimmy-jams on, made sure that Frederick the Bear was comfortable and in a good position to oversee my prayers on my return, and went to clean the ol' dentures. Opened the tube and squeezed a bit onto my brush. First impression was not that good to be honest - it was a sort of ugly reddish-brown colour. I don't know about you, but reddish-brown does not make my top five expected toothpaste colours - in fact maybe not even the top ten. I was willing to give it a go, though - using Dutch toothpaste had already proven to be such a growthful and rewarding experience that I wasn't going to dismiss my newest purchase on colour alone. Sadly though, worse was to come - it tasted HORRIBLE. It was SALTY.
Salty toothpaste? I mean, what the fuck???? What sort of evil mastermind thought that would be a good idea??? Just ...... THINK about that for a second.
Salty.
Toothpaste.
Those two words go together like "safari" and "suit", like "folk" and "dancing", like "parents" and "sex" like..... oh, I dunno..... "Kaspar" and "Bepke (hahahaha, in-joke)!!"
It's BAD, it's EVIL, it's all seven shades of wrong, with a few more thrown in for good measure.
And after I used it, I couldn't sleep! It was like I'd gone out and had a skinful, and helped myself to the word's biggest, saltiest kebab or Mcpolyunsaturated Fat Pizza on the way home, and then couldn't sleep because I was dehydrated, but without the fun part. And that's not the worst of it - I actually persevered with the stuff for four days, because I couldn't get to the shop! Throw in some St Matthew Passion-induced insomnia, and you have a recipe for a Kranky Karrot in the morning, I can tell you - no matter how much crappy Dutch coffee I injected intraveneously.
Thought I was getting the hang of this place. Think I've gone back to square one. They use salty toothpaste, I mean honestly. What sort of a country have a landed in???
Friday, April 3, 2009
Passionate madness
It's Passiontide in Holland, hurrah! And don't the Dutch just love their Passions. I managed to get myself signed up for a "tour" of Holland - a tour that involves me clocking up enough miles to get to Australia and back, but invariably leaves me sleeping in my own bed every night. This can be a mixed blessing, Holland is a small place - not small enough that crossing the entire country doesn't take awhile, but small enough that a company can just about get away with not providing transport or accommodation during an eighteen-concert season. This can become pretty tiring, particularly when the eighteen concerts are thinly spread over twenty-two days. I'm thirteen concerts in, and at the moment I'm in that fabulous state of being too tired to sleep. Wonderful.
Not that I'm not having fun, though. It's a fabulous piece of music and it's no wonder that some people devote their entire careers to performing Bach. I've been keen to learn the Evangelist role for some time now as well, so listening to it eighteen times is a pretty good way to get a feel for it! The thing is that as tired as I am, and as tired as the people around me are, you do end up zoning out quite a bit, and short of something memorable happening, one concert can blend into another to an extent.
But that's where we come to the fun part. You see, in an eighteen-concert run, memorable things DO happen, and being tired and zoned-out as you are, fits of giggles amongst the choir and orchestra are not unusual. It's that particularly awful sort of giggling though - the "I know I shouldn't, but that was REALLY funny, oh my God keep a straight face, bite the cheek, lip, fist, anything, hahaha snnngggrrrrkkk" sort of laughter that ends up sounding like you're having an aneurism. Like that completely insane moment in the headmaster's office with your mates and he's going mental at you and then you notice that his flies are undone and you lose it.
There have been several moments like that lately - they seem to have happened more often as we get closer to the end. I'm not sure whether it's because we're tired and a bit mad and so small things seem funnier, but over the past week there's been loads of them. Some of them are pretty simple - someone comes in early, someone's chair collapses, an instrumentalist drops something noisy at an inopportune moment - but two in particular stick in my memory.
Utrecht, 27th of March. Concert number 7. Sight-gag. Depending on the church, our soloists sometimes sit in the front row of the audience. In our rather generously-proportioned soprano's first aria, she walked on stage and turned around and I noticed that something had happened to her jacket. There were two symmetrical white stripes across the back of it, almost like the reflecting strips that a cyclist would wear. "That's weird", I thought - and then one after the other, they fell off and fluttered to the ground for all the world to see. They were the "Reserved for the soloists" signs from her seat. Gold. Hahahaha- snnngrrrrggk.
Hoogland, 29th of March. Concert number 9. Comedic timing verging on genius. For those of you who aren't familiar with what the Passions are, they're basically the story of the death of Jesus Christ set to music. The whole piece runs from the betrayal, arrest, trial by Pilate, angry mobs, crucifixion, death and aftermath. As you can imagine, the moment of His death is pretty significant - in a piece that was written with gravitas in mind, this is grativas times a thousand. He cries out in a loud voice, and then as some translations have it "gives up the ghost". It's sung and/or narrated by the Evangelist, and our Evangelist as got that bit down pat - he draws everyone in, pauses for dramatic effect, decrescendos dramatically, sings so quietly that you can barely hear him, and then stops. The whole world holds its breath for a few moments - everyone communes with their innermost being, confesses their sins, tries to remember what they had for breakfast that day, that sort of thing - and then the piece goes on. So as an audience-member, you'd think that would be a bad time to blow your nose, huh? Well - you'd be wrong. "Und vershied [and died]".... PARP!!!! Right on cue. One of those farty, raspberry nose-blows too, the sort of violent emission that only dainty old ladies seem to be capable of, from someone's granny in the front row. Don't think I've ever seen anyone up-staged by nasal congestion before! Fits. Of. Giggles.
Some of these anxious moments aren't always caused by others, though - sometimes they're caused by me. The St Matthew Passion makes me fart. Don't know why, it just does. It's probably because I haven't been eating very well for the past few weeks, but for some unknown and very inconvenient reason it seems to manifest most when we're on stage. And trying to keep my own badly-timed violent emissions down to a dull roar can be pretty difficult!
If you've got any of your own onstage bloopers that you think worth sharing, feel free to put them in the comments.
Not that I'm not having fun, though. It's a fabulous piece of music and it's no wonder that some people devote their entire careers to performing Bach. I've been keen to learn the Evangelist role for some time now as well, so listening to it eighteen times is a pretty good way to get a feel for it! The thing is that as tired as I am, and as tired as the people around me are, you do end up zoning out quite a bit, and short of something memorable happening, one concert can blend into another to an extent.
But that's where we come to the fun part. You see, in an eighteen-concert run, memorable things DO happen, and being tired and zoned-out as you are, fits of giggles amongst the choir and orchestra are not unusual. It's that particularly awful sort of giggling though - the "I know I shouldn't, but that was REALLY funny, oh my God keep a straight face, bite the cheek, lip, fist, anything, hahaha snnngggrrrrkkk" sort of laughter that ends up sounding like you're having an aneurism. Like that completely insane moment in the headmaster's office with your mates and he's going mental at you and then you notice that his flies are undone and you lose it.
There have been several moments like that lately - they seem to have happened more often as we get closer to the end. I'm not sure whether it's because we're tired and a bit mad and so small things seem funnier, but over the past week there's been loads of them. Some of them are pretty simple - someone comes in early, someone's chair collapses, an instrumentalist drops something noisy at an inopportune moment - but two in particular stick in my memory.
Utrecht, 27th of March. Concert number 7. Sight-gag. Depending on the church, our soloists sometimes sit in the front row of the audience. In our rather generously-proportioned soprano's first aria, she walked on stage and turned around and I noticed that something had happened to her jacket. There were two symmetrical white stripes across the back of it, almost like the reflecting strips that a cyclist would wear. "That's weird", I thought - and then one after the other, they fell off and fluttered to the ground for all the world to see. They were the "Reserved for the soloists" signs from her seat. Gold. Hahahaha- snnngrrrrggk.
Hoogland, 29th of March. Concert number 9. Comedic timing verging on genius. For those of you who aren't familiar with what the Passions are, they're basically the story of the death of Jesus Christ set to music. The whole piece runs from the betrayal, arrest, trial by Pilate, angry mobs, crucifixion, death and aftermath. As you can imagine, the moment of His death is pretty significant - in a piece that was written with gravitas in mind, this is grativas times a thousand. He cries out in a loud voice, and then as some translations have it "gives up the ghost". It's sung and/or narrated by the Evangelist, and our Evangelist as got that bit down pat - he draws everyone in, pauses for dramatic effect, decrescendos dramatically, sings so quietly that you can barely hear him, and then stops. The whole world holds its breath for a few moments - everyone communes with their innermost being, confesses their sins, tries to remember what they had for breakfast that day, that sort of thing - and then the piece goes on. So as an audience-member, you'd think that would be a bad time to blow your nose, huh? Well - you'd be wrong. "Und vershied [and died]".... PARP!!!! Right on cue. One of those farty, raspberry nose-blows too, the sort of violent emission that only dainty old ladies seem to be capable of, from someone's granny in the front row. Don't think I've ever seen anyone up-staged by nasal congestion before! Fits. Of. Giggles.
Some of these anxious moments aren't always caused by others, though - sometimes they're caused by me. The St Matthew Passion makes me fart. Don't know why, it just does. It's probably because I haven't been eating very well for the past few weeks, but for some unknown and very inconvenient reason it seems to manifest most when we're on stage. And trying to keep my own badly-timed violent emissions down to a dull roar can be pretty difficult!
If you've got any of your own onstage bloopers that you think worth sharing, feel free to put them in the comments.
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