Gosh. Where’d I leave off?

Oh yes. Sunday.

It is so glorious to get to sing with that room full of people. I guess you couldn’t see, but there were trillions of them in the Ballroom for the afternoon gymanfa session. I have no idea how many there actually were. A lot. You can hear them—aren’t they gorgeous?

I haven’t sung The Holy City in years—at least a whole year!—but deciding to perform it with Alan wingin’ the accompaniment felt like the most natural thing in the world. As if my last performance of The Holy City at a North American Festival of Wales gymanfa had been the day before, instead of two years ago, in 2006. Being able to do this just blew me away—perhaps just as nice a prize as getting another chance at the National Eisteddfod in Wales.

If you were at that gymanfa session, people… you made my month. It was so satisfying to sing that song with you!

Other notable items, regarding Sunday: Eilir Owen Griffiths led the gymanfa I performed at, and he was 1000% hands-down fantastic. I hope I someday again have the privilege of watching him in action. Best gymanfa ganu ever! My favorite quote, from Eilir Owen Griffiths: “Singing is not formal. EVER.” Word.

Ever since, I’ve been working up a wonderful little music project to basically replace my current meganmezzo.com presence. I’m super excited about it, but I was (of course) swamped with work the minute I got back to Austin, and it’s not quite finished yet. If you’re interested in my wonderful little music project, though, drop me an email. It’ll help keep me moving. ;}

To the North American Festival of Wales, and all its attendees: THANK YOU, again, so much. Saturday’s competition and ensuing rewards were amazing, but singing with all of you on Sunday was the highlight of my whole week. You’re fantastic.

If you’re looking for the beginning, it’s right here. ;}

And here’s the part where my brain drops right out of my head, because I honestly don’t believe that this really happened.

Guys, I put my all into this thing, but I don’t know that I actually expected them to send me to Wales again. I thought about how nice it would be, but I don’t know that I really even considered the possibility—beyond pure speculation—that I would actually win the thing again, that they WOULD hand me another check and a few weeks later I would be making travel plans. What!? No. What?!

“We marked this very closely,” Gwyndaf told us, “It was a very close one. And the one thing that will matter in Wales—is you’ll only be singing in the Eisteddfod in the Welsh language.” He said later, “It purely was on the Welsh”—and oh, you could feel the expectation in the room, because I’m sure many of them were largely unable to identify the exact accuracy of our Welsh diction, the same as me. And then Gwyndaf presented second place to Sabrina, and, audibly, the whole room let out a breath.

And my mouth fell open, again, because it always does, I can’t help it, it’s the same big dumb gaping face I made when I won in Orlando. I am not suave. In fact, I am so far from suave, when this happens, I am the anti-suave. I am completely shocked, just because I really didn’t think this would happen—especially after seeing just how polished her performance was.

But then he gave first place to me. And I walked up in a daze, and they handed me certificates and a trophy—the same trophy I won in 2005, a tiny bit worse for wear but the exact same one—and shook my hands, and we all exchanged hugs, and I was just so flabbergasted I could barely speak.

I had been catapulted into an alternate universe and I simply didn’t know what to say.

In fact, even now, I don’t know what to say. So I’ll show you my competition video, instead, with Alan Thomas playing the wonderful accompaniment. My gracious and enterprising mother shot it for me from the back row.

Thanks, Mom.

If you’re looking for the beginning, it’s right here. ;}

Saturday: Lift-Off

I don’t remember Saturday very well. I slept in as late as I could, and took as long as possible getting ready. I ordered breakfast up to the room. I carefully styled my hair (to whatever extent it’s even possible to style my hair, when it customarily does whatever the hell it wants) and put on my new spiffy makeup the way Emily’s email tutorial had instructed. (Man, she knows what she’s talking about. Thanks, Em.) Bra, check. Shoes, stockings, check. Freaking awesome concert dress, check. Black shawl with subtle shimmer discovered and included by my mother, check. I was in good shape. Time to go.

I went downstairs and discovered my father and a friend of the family sitting outside the Ballroom, shortly before I discovered that the room I’d be competing in was the King’s Garden (or Le Bateau, depending on which door you use)—not the Ballroom at all! I’m not sure how I managed to miss this information, but this was news to me. I had stayed surprisingly calm and collected until then, but when I realized the room would not be the same room I’d already sung in (and visualized in my head!) part of me was certain—absolutely certain—that NOW was the time to panic.

Instead of actually panicking, I went in to discover my mother and grandmother already occupying the otherwise empty competition room, showed my mother how to use the video camera I’d brought, and spent a few minutes singing my aria to get a feel for the sound. It was fine; once I had sung, I felt pretty much fine again. People started filtering in, so I went outside to talk to my Dad and distract myself for awhile.

I came back just about twenty-five minutes before starting time, and dropped my stuff off near my family so that I could check my makeup in the restroom. In the restroom, I reapplied some makeup, turned to make sure my dress was all where it was supposed to be, and as I took off my shawl to decide whether to wear it while singing…

...I discovered…

...that I seemed to be…

My mouth fell open.

I looked like I’d been crawling around in a chimney. Everywhere the shawl had covered, I was sooty—and not in a way that was wiping off, like fabric threads.

The shawl had dyed my skin.

I put the shawl back on.

I left the restroom.

To my mother I said, “Emergency. Come with me.”

And she did.

For the next seven minutes, I cackled with freakish calm as we scrubbed my shoulders and arms with restroom paper towels soaked in water and soap. Maybe it was a cheap shawl. Maybe it had never been washed. Who even knows. But I was definitely dyed, and the dye was vaguely purple. We scrubbed and it came off in bits, the way heavy dirt can be rubbed out of skin. I couldn’t believe it. I was actually supposed to be in there fifteen minutes early to draw straws—but I was in here, scrubbing dye out of my skin.

I continued to laugh it off and didn’t seem to really be worried. Grace under pressure, I suppose, but what a bizarre thing to discover just before the competition. I was lucky that we mostly got it off, and I opted to abandon the shawl for the rest of… EVER. Holding it on would get annoying, anyway. I stopped to ask my father if he could see any dirt / soot / purple on me on my way into the room, and he said he couldn’t—so I forgot about it and scooted over to where the other competitors were waiting.

PURPLE doesn’t even match my DRESS.

We drew straws—actually folded pieces of paper in a cup. I was second. And let me tell you a little something about what goes on in my head when I get involved in something like this…

There was one singer there who I felt I was particularly competing with—and she was fantastic. (Her name is Sabrina Coleman Clark, and you should hire her. She’s incredibly good at what she does!) I had caught the tail-end of her rehearsal Friday morning, and I already knew she was a very exciting performer. I’d been looking forward to hearing more from her for the last twenty-four hours, regardless of what that meant for the contest results. (It’s always fun to compete with people I’d gladly see win instead of me—and this was no different. It’s a little bit thrilling! And of course, it presents a particular sort of challenge, which I love.)

Sabrina drew “straw” number four. And all I could think was, Whew—at least we’re not singing back-to-back! Teeny bit harder to directly compare our performances that way! Har, har. Megan M., Voice Competition Strategist.

I sat down, and listened to the first competitor. Then my name was announced. I stood up.

And I went up on the platform to sing.

Everything went reasonably well; I didn’t feel 100%, but I didn’t make any of the mistakes I’d been training myself out of for the past few days. In fact, for the most part, I felt good—it felt good to be up there in front of people, good to inject some emotion, good to see smiles on people’s faces or see them swaying or pressing their hands to their hearts. I had no idea how well I was doing, in my diction, but I knew that the sound felt very good. Not perfect— not the flawless technique I’ll always want—but very good. Enjoyable. Natural.

I finished singing, thanked the audience, gestured to Alan for well-deserved accompaniment kudos, and went back to my seat.

There is so much in here, it’s hard for me to get it all in—to even figure out how to write it all down. There was a lot of certainty on my part that Sabrina had it—and although I did feel a tiny twinge of disappointment I think that’s really what I expected, that she would win first place. Her presentation was truly polished, and she certainly has a comfortable stage presence where I, after two years of focusing almost exclusively on non-musical projects and making a living on my own terms, am most definitely a bit rusty. She clearly does this often (and should). Gwyndaf Jones—the wonderful Welsh tenor who adjudicated on the singing—said as much in his notes. And so my certainty wasn’t so off the mark.

There was one thing I couldn’t identify, however, and that was the diction. I knew that I had mostly achieved the Welsh diction I’d been working on, and I was much more sure of this after the other adjudicator (who had been focusing entirely on Welsh diction) gave us her notes and told me how excellent my Welsh was (twice) despite there being one word that needed a bit of work. That made me feel good, but didn’t tell me how good it had all been. The adjudication notes for Sabrina didn’t tell me much I didn’t already know, either—except that her singing and presentation had been fantastic. And we knew that!

It was clearly a difficult choice for the judges, and I wouldn’t have wanted to be in their place. Gwyndaf paused after their notes for a moment, went back to the judges’ table, then returned to the microphone.

If you’re looking for the beginning, it’s right here. ;}

Well, Why NOT Get Sick?

It was my own fault, honestly. Marty’s birthday is August 26th, so the previous weekend we had a party and some fun evenings with friends, and the inevitable influx of wheat, sugar, and dairy. One little exception at a time, I can generally keep up with (though I shouldn’t). But all of them at once and in quantity… nope. The big problem is that I can get away with it for awhile. I think, Oh, I’m fiiiiine. And then I find out that I’m wrong!

And so that last week of August, I didn’t touch my music. Not so much because I couldn’t… but because my every tiny mote of energy was bent on doing the work that had to be done before I left. It would have been reasonable to finish this work if I’d been healthy. With a sinus infection, it took everything I had. Needless to say, I didn’t get out to buy a strapless bra. Marty spent a lot of time taking care of me. And I spent a lot of time wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea with whisky or drinking lemon-ginger shots, pumping out project work.

The day before my flight left, I felt mostly better. I was still easily exhausted, but my other symptoms were pretty much gone. I went to the MAC counter at Saks Fifth Avenue and bought half the makeup my little sister had recommended. (At this point I knew nothing about makeup. The woman there made me up; it was fun.) I went home and crashed. Marty helped me pack. The next day, I flew to Pittsburgh.

My mother picked me up at the airport and took me home to Youngstown. I spent the next three days mostly relaxing. I did a little bit of work, and I ran my music to the rehearsal accompaniments Kim had kindly recorded for me. I gave mini concert sets for my grandmother in the living room. I sang for the dogs. Then I crashed some more, because I was still getting tired from little things like showering—but it was getting better.

Checking Into the Hilton (and Out of the Internet)

On Tuesday the first of September, my mother drove me into Pittsburgh. We went to Ross Park and bought the rest of my makeup from an adorable man who clearly knew exactly where everything was. We went to Nordstrom and told them just how in-a-hurry we were, and the kindest, loveliest woman rushed around finding a strapless that fit me. It turned out that they didn’t have the right size in the store for what I wanted—but I suggested that I try a difference size down just to see if it would work. It did, and we bought it. We thanked her and dashed away.

You know some of this; we checked into the Hilton Pittsburgh, and their wireless was broken. They insisted that it would be fixed in a day or so. (It stayed broken the entire time I was there.) I used the internet by sitting on the floor outside my room, or squeezing onto one corner of the farthest bed, or (occasionally) risking a trip to the lobby to see if it was working there. When connected, it was very slow. But the hotel was ultra-posh, otherwise enjoyable (if you don’t eat, drink and breathe internet the way I do) and I managed all right.

Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I made sure my pieces were—finally—memorized.

I cemented my Welsh, repeating phrases to remember to use the right words. I had succeeded in setting aside almost all of my workload while in Pittsburgh, and I had a lot of downtime. I slept. I kept myself fed. I rehearsed alone in my room (wondering how obnoxious I seemed to the neighbors) and waited for someone to complain to the front desk. (No one ever did. Whew.) I watched Keith Olbermann and Bill Maher on the spiffy flatscreen. I watched the gorgeous view outside my window, and the gorgeous view outside the Executive Lounge windows. One night, I noticed them building something crazy in Point Park. (It turned out to be a portable football field. They worked all night for a few nights in a row. It was a riot.) I read my book. I slept some more.

Wednesday evening Joan arrived in Pittsburgh and came up to my room to go over my pieces with me. We read them through, adjusting bits and pieces, and then I sang them for her. She called my attention to two places, praised my progress over all, and that was it. I am always surprised when this sort of thing goes well, because I have so little internal compass for whether my Welsh is correct. It often feels like quite a bit of uncertain gut intuition refined with Joan’s guidance and, well, just doing what I’m told! But the outcome always seems magical to me, especially this time.) I thanked Joan—gratefully and profusely—and we went our separate ways to bed.

On Friday, I rehearsed with Alan Thomas, who is fantastic. We rehearsed in the Ballroom, which was perhaps one of the most exciting places I’ve had the opportunity to make noise in. The sound and shape of it felt so good, I felt like I could sing forever—even after the first set, when I botched the words or the diction or the timing. Alan helped me get my tempos closer to what I had been rehearsing with, and everything was instantaneously better. I relaxed. I sang two more songs, echoing to the rafters. They went well. We stopped.

I uploaded the recording I had taken of that rehearsal to the internet (it took just about forever) and called John, who was glad to listen and give me some pointers Friday night. I changed my rehearsing, now, because we were close; I breathed the music instead of singing outright, and I kept my eyes closed. I was picturing the room in front of me. I was imagining the energy exchange of an audience that appreciates the music in front of them. I was working out my final interpretation and the sequence of emotions I wanted to use—simple, but applicable. I was trying to stop analyzing it and start feeling it.

A few times I sang in front of the picture window looking out at Point Park. I don’t think anyone noticed, but it would be very funny if they had. ;}

Saturday: Lift-Off

I don’t remember Saturday very well, but I’ll surely do my best to recount it…

I am completely high off this morning’s rehearsal.

I met with Alan Thomas, who is the wonderful competition accompanist, and we worked out the bits and pieces and tempos and so forth for my two pieces. I’m competing in the David G. Morris competition (lots of Morrises running around these Welsh festivals!), which happens (I believe!) at 2:30pm ET tomorrow afternoon. I knew it would be a great rehearsal—I remember singing with Alan four years ago, at the same festival in Orlando—but wow, once we had the tempos right, those songs were like crack. I could have sung another hour or two. It was absolutely, stunningly glorious.

At a late breakfast with David Williams I gushed about how enjoyable it was to sing in that room, o-ho, I can’t wait for tomorrow. There’s a more poignant point here though, I think, and it has something to do with how easy it is to forget how happy this makes me. I don’t get a lot of singing in these days—mostly because singing takes money. It costs money to study, to compete, to perform. Money for clothes, music, etc. Money to ensure downtime before a competition or performance, certainly. Since the money I make from various business pursuits, right now, goes to paying the usual sorts of bills, I haven’t been doing much more than studying and preparing for the occasional competition. (For a little perspective, consider that this statement includes this competition, the same festival four years ago, and the National Eisteddfod in Swansea, 2006!)

But I love this. Nothing is so wonderful as being at the end, knowing the music, knowing I can do it, standing in front of the room and filling it with sound (and even better, the exchange of energy when I have an actual audience)—but that’s worth so much. Maybe it’s worth every pain in the ass I’ve endured to get here. Maybe it always will be.

What does that mean for my life, as it is right now? Well, it probably means that any doubts I’ve had about the validity of finding a musical source of income are unfounded. It means that there is a significant part of myself that’s going ignored a large portion of the time. Being thrilled by and good at multiple things is confusing and frustrating, sometimes, because the world (mostly) just wants you to pick one.

But I won’t.

I don’t want to!

You can’t make me.

I’ve been saying all of this since high school, so why am I letting music slip bit by bit out of my life? Because it’s expensive? Because it presents a more intense challenge, on top of everything I’m already doing?

A CHALLENGE?

When the hell was the last time I backed down from a challenge!?

GEEZE. Now there’s some perspective!