June 4, 2010

Four hour singing rehearsals are probably not productive. Last night my mind checked out at about the 3 hour mark, my voice 20 minutes later. At one point (at several points, actually) the sopranos would sing a passage wrong, then Michael would play it correctly, then they would sing it exactly as they had before. Then he would play it again, then they would sing it wrong again. It was exhaustion. There is a point past which no new achievement can flow, a point at which things must simply be left alone for a while. Vocal directors resist this truth more than others. Barber’s “The Coolin,” at least, leapt from the realm of nuisance into the realm of the beloved. The Brahms is transcendent. Jonathan said of it, “I don’t understand how anybody knows how to write music like this.” My explanation is that they don’t. They open their minds to the Holy Spirit. But I am having a wonderful time. I have avoided intensive short-term preparation throughout my life– knowing that a hint today then an evening to take it in works better for me than a frenzied barrage– so the we-have-two-days-to-do-this panic is, this one time, fairly romantic.