Honestly, I’m a little daunted by this. The next few sentences were going to be full of reasons why I don’t think I’m qualified to hand out advice on something that I seemed to just stumble into and am still, daily, trying to get the hang of. On the other hand, I am getting a bit wrinkly and I am beginning to notice with alarm that younger folk often pipe down as I, the strong and stable wise old sage, start to tell my stories. And so on that basis, and because I have sung a lot of notes in a lot of places, I shall get on with it.
People often ask singers where they trained, as if four years at music college, aeons ago, was all that was really needed to launch and sustain a career. Il capo, Luciano Pavarotti – who achieved more than most in the opera world, and was arguably one of the greatest singers of all time – considered himself a perpetual student of the voice. Two bass heroes of mine, Sir John Tomlinson and Ferruccio Furlanetto, are both still doing their scales and arpeggios after careers spanning over 40 years. Voices and bodies change, life throws curveballs and the singer – if only to keep bread on the table – has to rethink and adapt on a regular basis. I think that’s what is called developing a technique, which is not, as people sometimes think, just about singing absurdly fast and high. It’s about digging deep and finding a way to produce the goods time and time again even when you really don’t feel like it.
My own career has been a bit different to most, in that I was a decent trumpet player who learned to sing some arias for fun and then won an opera prize. I became bit of a small-time celebrity at college – “Isn’t he the trumpet player?” – and I was offered funding to study singing properly, on the condition that I put my trumpets in the attic for good and learn some more songs. So the trumpets went and I bought some chinos and a cravat and began sitting at the singers’ table.
However, I didn’t really fancy all that flouncing around on stage, so I got a job singing in the choir at St George’s Windsor for few years (yes, I saw the Queen regularly), and then moved on to join the BBC Singers. My first faltering attempts to become an opera singer didn’t happen until I was well into my 30s. For a bass, thank the Lord, that’s OK. Most of our roles are kings, priests, ghosts, monks, the occasional psychopath, dads and grandads with at least one foot in the grave, so there’s plenty of scope and – hopefully – years of work ahead. Basses rarely get star billing and the number one dressing room, but we do go on for a very, very long time. Even when we are really decrepit, if we are able to get onto the stage and face the front then somebody will employ us.
Mercifully, early on, I found a few excellent singing teachers with good ears and no egos, one of whom was a dead ringer for Mrs Doubtfire. She was a no-nonsense, fiery and sweary old bird with a thick Scottish accent. I adored her. I would regularly turn up with some enormous, gloomy aria (most bass arias are gloomy) and do my best Russian bass impression, during which she would scowl, and after my last profound note would pause before saying, “What the bloody hell was that?” She was utterly correct. A 23-year-old bass shouldn’t be singing the heavy, gloomy stuff, there’s plenty of time for that later. Just stick to the Handel, Mozart and lieder – I wish I’d sung more songs. . Search high and low to get a good, honest teacher (not necessarily the “in” teacher or the most expensive) who will slowly build the voice. Ask around, and try before you buy.
Singing is a personal thing. Our own body makes all of the sound, which is then tempered by our own experiences and personality. When we get up there we make ourselves very vulnerable. That explains why, perhaps even more than other performers, we get really hurt by criticism and rejection. “They said no? They chose him?” Unfortunately, these are regular visitors and it seems the greatest need for a singer is to develop a thick skin and good friends, but also to realise that there are many factors at play when it comes to casting, not just your own abilities. Although, of course there is always the possibility that you are just rubbish.
Today I sat in the Wales Millennium Centre in Cardiff while three of my friends sang gloriously the final trio of Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier. I blubbed like a baby and so did most of the seasoned singers around me. Why is that? What is it about the combination of notes, rhythms and voices that can cause something so deep and profound to happen deep inside? It’s likely that most, if not all singers heard something sublime once and got hooked. We all did the lessons, sang concerts in freezing churches and musty town halls with questionable conductors and tea and biscuits in the interval, but it really is a rare privilege to take a breath and have the chance sing something sublime that affects us and those around us. There are many times when a job with nine-to-five hours, weekends, holiday and sick pay seem very attractive, but the music is just too good to not have a go.
- Brindley Sherratt sings the role of Baron Ochs in Welsh National Opera’s new production of Der Rosenkavalier from 4 June to 1 July, and at Glyndebourne in summer 2018. He sings Claggart in Opera North’s Billy Budd that is at the Aldeburgh festival 24 and 25 June.
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