I was involved in a very camp, bizarre Christmas show. It was in the wilds of Norfolk and you performed two three-hour shows a day. You lived on cottages in the surrounding villages, and aside from the fact that by the beginning of December, you were altogether Christmassed-out, I thought it was a wonderful job. It must be said though, that at that stage of my life, I was indulging far too heavily in the joys of alcohol. I certainly enjoyed a few glasses of the old Vino Blanco. I shared the viewpoint of Julie Walters:
“I have a rare intolerance to herbs which means I can only drink fermented liquids, such as gin.” (Julie Walters)
There was a pub a few miles from where we performed and myself, and a few other hard-core alcoholics from the cast, would regularly be found after hours, enjoying the pub’s nightly lock-in. Of course, what comes with a night of heavy drinking is of course, the inevitable morning-after and one of the reasons I have now pretty much given up drinking (the other reason being that I was a very annoying drunk) was that I was finding it harder and harder to deal with the hangovers. They were monstrous, and gave me a banging headache, extreme dizziness and great waves of nausea. How on earth I thought I could perform with these symptoms, I do not know. After one particularly heavy night, I was all set for the afternoon performance. I had made it through the first half – no doubt probably still slightly drunk – and was getting ready for the first song after the interval, which involved us all coming on in lovely evening dresses, with some fabulously bling evening jewellery and singing When You Wish Upon A Star – and the organiser said it wasn’t camp. I got to wear a rather classy black evening dress with an array of diamante jewellery, including a thick diamante choker. Just before the start of the Act Two opening number, I began to feel rather sick. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to make a dash for the bathroom. The music was beginning and I was running out of time. I quickly made myself sick, but the force of the convulsions caused my choker to fly off right into the lavatory bowl where I had just thrown up. There was nothing for it. The necklace would have to be retrieved, and rinsed off. I could hear our cue approaching. My dance partner was hopping, wondering where the hell I was. There are certain actions that are degrading to do, and there are certain actions where you bring that degradation all on yourself. I think that walking on that stage wearing this beautiful evening dress, wearing a diamante necklace freshly washed from being thrown up on, with lavatory water trickling down into my décolletage defines that level of self-degradation quite well. Why on earth they didn't hire me again, I really couldn't say. It is at memories such as that, when I think thank God I don’t bother drinking anymore. I wouldn’t want to turn into Olly Reed:
“It was alleged that during a stag weekend prior to his second marriage, Reed downed an unhealthy 104 pints of beer. However, Reed was quick to dispel this rumour: ‘The event that was reported actually took place during an arm-wrestling competition in Guernsey about 15 years ago.’”
It was also during that same production that I was coming back to the stage door for the evening performance, when I received my harshest criticism to date. During the Christmas show, you would do a matinee and then dash back to your lovely Norfolk cottage for supper before the evening show. I was making my way back, and as it was winter, I was kitted out in a tartan mini skirt, thick black tights, snow boots and a long green parka jacket. As I rounded the corner to go to through the stage door, a woman turned to her husband in absolute shock, pointed to me and exclaimed:
“Look Stan! That man’s wearing a skirt!”
I obviously need to work on my feminine charms.
Monday 26 July 2010
Tuesday 26 January 2010
You say Villari, I say Volare
“I know two kinds of audience only - one coughing and one not coughing.”
~ Artur Schnabel
Ever since I began singing in a rather famous shop in London, I have received more and more requests to go and sing at people’s private functions. And more often than not, this seems to involve standing in the corner of their house, blaring out opera whilst a dozen or so people try to enjoy their Sunday roast. Now, I am never one to complain about having work – although I am about to - and I am quite happy to go and sing wherever someone is prepared to employ me, but I can never quite understand the appeal of having someone sing opera in quite such close proximity, because it is loud and some people don’t like it.
Recently, I was booked for one such event - a 60th Birthday party near Watford. The Birthday Boy – Melvyn – has booked me directly with only a week’s notice. But my increasingly empty diary was able to accommodate him. He said he was happy to leave the song choices to me. I asked him to go and look at my website and make sure he was happy with my style, which he said he was, so I confirmed the booking and said I would phone him a couple of days before the event to confirm everything. As Melvyn rang off, he asked me if I could sing “Villari”. Fine, fine, I said blithely. Then rang off and thought, “What the bloody hell is Villari?”
I went home and asked my husband what Villari was, thinking it might be some style of Italian Bel Canto singing that I was not familiar with, but Michael looked blank.
The following day I had another call from Melvyn,
“I really would like Villari,” he said.
“Right, Melvyn,” I said, “The thing is, I don’t think I know it.”
“What?” he exclaimed, “You must do.”
Then he proceeded to warble something which didn’t sound familiar to me at all.
“And it’s from an opera?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s an Italian aria.”
“Well,” I said, “I can only think it’s a male aria that I don’t know.”
Melvyn was disappointed, but much as I wracked my brains, I just couldn’t think what it was. I went back to Michael and asked again, and tried to re-enact Melvyn’s performance. There was a pause and Michael said:
“Oh. He means Volare by Dean Martin.”
“What?” I said.
“You know, Volare, who-oh, Volare, who-oh.”
“But that’s not an aria…”
The next day, another phone call from Melvyn.
“Hello Melvyn,” I said, in a slightly weary tone.
“Jessica,” he said, “I am afraid I am quite concerned about Saturday.”
“Oh dear,” I said, “Why is that?”
“You don’t know the song Villari.”
“Melvyn. Do you mean Volare by Dean Martin?”
“YES!” he exclaimed, “That’s it! You do know it!”
“Yes,” I said, “I do. But it isn’t from an opera.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, Melvyn. I can assure you it is not.”
“It’s in Italian. Therefore, it is from an opera.”
Give me strength.
I should have known that the gig was not going to be a resounding success from the build up. Melvyn had decided that it was going to be a surprise for all his guests, including his wife. I was booked to do an hour’s set, which involved two sets of about seven songs per set.
I started my first set and all was going fine. Then after three songs, one of Melvyn’s daughters came into the room with her son – Melvyn’s grandson.
“Can I just stop you?” she barked.
Er…I think you just have.
“Zachary would like to sing now.”
Zachary was about seven and, much as I love children, looked like a precocious little brat if ever I saw one.
Now, to be fair to Melvyn, he said that Zachary would have to wait his turn. I said he was welcome to sing, but Melvyn stood firm and said no.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” said the daughter, “Great way to ruin the boy’s confidence.”
I really did not feel that the boy’s confidence was something that we needed to be overly concerned about at that moment in time.
I proceeded on to my fourth song, and the daughter proceeded to glower at me for the entire duration. After that, I decided Zachary should just get on with it otherwise I was going to get evils for the next twenty minutes. So I invited him to do his performance.
It was a little more than I was expecting – a full rendition of Greased Lightning complete with partial striptease.
The video cameras were out, flashes going off and great rounds of applause. Perhaps I was jealous, but the whole episode was making me question whether I actually wanted children anymore. When Zachary had finished, Melvyn’s wife came up and ejected my CD from the player and shoved it at me which told me that that set was definitely over. I spend the rest of the afternoon hovering in the kitchen with the caterers, hearing snippets of a mounting domestic between Melvyn, his wife and the mother of Zachary. At the earliest opportunity, I took the money and ran.
~ Artur Schnabel
Ever since I began singing in a rather famous shop in London, I have received more and more requests to go and sing at people’s private functions. And more often than not, this seems to involve standing in the corner of their house, blaring out opera whilst a dozen or so people try to enjoy their Sunday roast. Now, I am never one to complain about having work – although I am about to - and I am quite happy to go and sing wherever someone is prepared to employ me, but I can never quite understand the appeal of having someone sing opera in quite such close proximity, because it is loud and some people don’t like it.
Recently, I was booked for one such event - a 60th Birthday party near Watford. The Birthday Boy – Melvyn – has booked me directly with only a week’s notice. But my increasingly empty diary was able to accommodate him. He said he was happy to leave the song choices to me. I asked him to go and look at my website and make sure he was happy with my style, which he said he was, so I confirmed the booking and said I would phone him a couple of days before the event to confirm everything. As Melvyn rang off, he asked me if I could sing “Villari”. Fine, fine, I said blithely. Then rang off and thought, “What the bloody hell is Villari?”
I went home and asked my husband what Villari was, thinking it might be some style of Italian Bel Canto singing that I was not familiar with, but Michael looked blank.
The following day I had another call from Melvyn,
“I really would like Villari,” he said.
“Right, Melvyn,” I said, “The thing is, I don’t think I know it.”
“What?” he exclaimed, “You must do.”
Then he proceeded to warble something which didn’t sound familiar to me at all.
“And it’s from an opera?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s an Italian aria.”
“Well,” I said, “I can only think it’s a male aria that I don’t know.”
Melvyn was disappointed, but much as I wracked my brains, I just couldn’t think what it was. I went back to Michael and asked again, and tried to re-enact Melvyn’s performance. There was a pause and Michael said:
“Oh. He means Volare by Dean Martin.”
“What?” I said.
“You know, Volare, who-oh, Volare, who-oh.”
“But that’s not an aria…”
The next day, another phone call from Melvyn.
“Hello Melvyn,” I said, in a slightly weary tone.
“Jessica,” he said, “I am afraid I am quite concerned about Saturday.”
“Oh dear,” I said, “Why is that?”
“You don’t know the song Villari.”
“Melvyn. Do you mean Volare by Dean Martin?”
“YES!” he exclaimed, “That’s it! You do know it!”
“Yes,” I said, “I do. But it isn’t from an opera.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, Melvyn. I can assure you it is not.”
“It’s in Italian. Therefore, it is from an opera.”
Give me strength.
I should have known that the gig was not going to be a resounding success from the build up. Melvyn had decided that it was going to be a surprise for all his guests, including his wife. I was booked to do an hour’s set, which involved two sets of about seven songs per set.
I started my first set and all was going fine. Then after three songs, one of Melvyn’s daughters came into the room with her son – Melvyn’s grandson.
“Can I just stop you?” she barked.
Er…I think you just have.
“Zachary would like to sing now.”
Zachary was about seven and, much as I love children, looked like a precocious little brat if ever I saw one.
Now, to be fair to Melvyn, he said that Zachary would have to wait his turn. I said he was welcome to sing, but Melvyn stood firm and said no.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” said the daughter, “Great way to ruin the boy’s confidence.”
I really did not feel that the boy’s confidence was something that we needed to be overly concerned about at that moment in time.
I proceeded on to my fourth song, and the daughter proceeded to glower at me for the entire duration. After that, I decided Zachary should just get on with it otherwise I was going to get evils for the next twenty minutes. So I invited him to do his performance.
It was a little more than I was expecting – a full rendition of Greased Lightning complete with partial striptease.
The video cameras were out, flashes going off and great rounds of applause. Perhaps I was jealous, but the whole episode was making me question whether I actually wanted children anymore. When Zachary had finished, Melvyn’s wife came up and ejected my CD from the player and shoved it at me which told me that that set was definitely over. I spend the rest of the afternoon hovering in the kitchen with the caterers, hearing snippets of a mounting domestic between Melvyn, his wife and the mother of Zachary. At the earliest opportunity, I took the money and ran.
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