This column first appeared in Column 8, July 13th, 1994
While taking a few days off last week, I caught up with an old movie called 42nd Street, one of those behind-the-scenes-stories about the trials and tribulations of producing a big Broadway musical.
While taking a few days off last week, I caught up with an old movie called 42nd Street, one of those behind-the-scenes-stories about the trials and tribulations of producing a big Broadway musical.
The producer
(permanently-on-the-edge-of-a-nervous-breakdown), had to face a major crisis
when his leading lady (still-madly-in-love-with-her-old-vaudeville-partner)
broke her ankle the night before the big try-out in Philadelphia.
Where to
find a replacement? In the chorus line, of course: the male juvenile who
couldn't dance for rocks in his socks knew the new star was there all the time.
After a rigorous five hours of I-can't-do-it!-rehearsal, she carries off the
leading part with aplomb and panache.
Such things
never happen in real life, of course - or do they?
Apart from
watching a video or two on my holiday, I tried catching up on filing my
newspaper cuttings. Amongst them I found a Christmas letter from a friend in
England, and thought I'd drop him a note the next day to bring him up to date.
David, my friend, has
worked at the Royal Opera House in London for 20 years or more, first
as a repetiteur (him what teaches the singers their notes by repeating them
until the singers have got them glued onto their brains), and more recently on
the admin side. He's also conducted occasional performances.
Before I
started the letter next day, I glanced at the ODT's News Digest
section. And did a double-take of a significant kind: David, this very same
friend, was mentioned in dispatches.
And why?
Seems that during a performance of the opera Manon at the Royal
Opera House, the lead baritone had fallen sick at the end of the first act. And
the understudy had been sent home for the evening.
What to do?
David and
the producer of the opera took counsel together, and came up with a stand-in
job between them. David would sing the part from the wings, and the producer
would go on stage and mime it in front of the audience.
The ROH is
an enormous place to fill with a human voice, and I've seen more than one
singer swallowed up in its cavernous spaces. David can sing, but for all that
he's hardly what you'd call an operatic baritone. How he managed to make his
voice heard from the wings is beyond me. Perhaps he was fitted up with some
subtle form of microphone: a real no-no under normal circumstances in an opera
house.
So standing
in for the star does happen in real life - and I've experienced it happening at
least one other almost-as-amazing time.
I was
sitting in my Tooting Bec flat in South London some 20 years ago, listening on
the radio to a performance of CarminaBurana at the AlbertHall. The baritone soloist was winging his way up through the
high notes of his part when he came to a stifled halt: a strange shuffling and
scuffling was heard on the airwaves - along with general wonderment from the
audience.
It was a
warm night; the Albert Hall was packed for the Proms season. We learned that
the stuffiness and heat had overcome the poor baritone, all wrapped up as he was
in his dress suit. Possibly he ran out of air from scaling heights which
baritones are not wont to scale. (A couple of days later, on television, we
would see the fellow tottering backwards into a row of first violinists, with music
stands, chairs and musicians scattering in all directions.)
The
management were save by a most remarkable thing: a young man who'd recently
sung the same part in a production in the north, leaped up from his seat in the
audience, raced round backstage, offered his services to the perplexed
management - and was accepted! They tucked him up in a tuxedo, and whisked him
on stage, where he proceeded to sing as though he'd been contracted to do the
job.
And he too
carried it off with panache and aplomb.
No comments:
Post a Comment