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.