But I digress.
In my experience, singing competitions are much like a celebration of Festivus. Only without the clever writers of Seinfeld, or the large aluminum pole. There are lots of people gathered together, there is plenty of airing of grievances, and then there are the feats of strength. This takes place in many forms - sometimes you're herded into one large room and called out one by one. Sometimes you're ferried from one room to another - first the waiting room, then the warm-up room, then the green room, then backstage, and back to the waiting room. Sometimes the public are allowed to come and sit among the contestants and vice versa. This I find especially unnerving, as there is always some well-meaning person who really yearns to know more about you and your art in the five minutes before you have to go sing. And, depending on the format, you may really really have to do some singing. Anywhere from three minutes up to fifteen - arias, art songs, oratorio, musical theatre, chamber music, take your pick from the veritable buffet of choices and then prepare for almost all possibilities. Oy gevalt I'm nauseated just thinking about it. And I didn't even have to sing today.
Today I went as an observer and friend to my favorite VeganDiva, who was singing her tush off in the Met regionals in NYC. I couldn't make it for the whole thing, but I was there for the last four or five contestants, the endless deliberation, and the announcement. In rooms like this, I want nothing more than to whisk myself and my friend away to a place where we can talk about running and what we're going to have for dinner and anything ANYTHING but the competition. Because that's ALL people want to talk about. How did you sing how did I sing what did you wear did I wear the right thing how about those shoes don't you think he's too young for that don't you think she's too old to wear that I mean seriously and the judges did they look interested I think they looked interested but how could I know with the lights and all the pressure and was the tempo okay in the allegro I think the largo was a little too slow my breath is all hopped up today I think I should have worn nude hose SHOOT ME IN THE EYBALL AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.
People deal with this situation in a multitude of ways. The VeganD and I are more likely to plug in our iPods and listen to something raucous (she: Ludacris, I: Fergie) and try to tune out all of the twittering and fluttering about. There is no room for hysterical wing-flapping when you're trying to keep your cool. If you win, you don't want to be so overwhelmed you can't thank people. If you don't win, you want to be able to exit the room with enough grace to be known as 'steadfast' and 'level-headed.' No mad scenes here, people. I won't say I agreed with the outcome of today's competition, but I wasn't there for all of it so that's my personal bias talking. It's how we deal with these situations that help define us as people, performers, and citizens of this career.
My Met is this Sunday. I'm not really nervous as all of my rep is well-broken-in and I sing it well. I have a fabulous dress (Carmen Marc Valvo you're my dreamboat) and shiny hair (though I really need to get a pedicure if I'm going to wear those fabulous pewter heels) and I like singing in the hall. A recipe for success. But there are x-factors, to be sure. 15 singers x 5 possible arias each x 1 pianist x 3 judges. Just looking at the math on that gives me vertigo.
I cannot compete with anyone else. I am not in competition with anyone else. I go out there. I sing. I do my business and what I do well. And then, I plug myself back in to Fergie (or perhaps some Lady Gaga for the occasion) and wait. I am the best at what I can do. If they are shopping for my brand of singing on Sunday, I have a chance. And the rest is out of my hands.
It sucks sooooo bad.
But I'll tell you what I can do. I can get good sleep and drink lots of water and hit the gym hard (but not too hard) between now and then. I can practice my languages and my phrasing and those devilish passages that make what I do sound really impressive. And I'm going to start first by drying my hair (a lovely shade of chestnut brown, I might add) and get to work on that beauty sleep. Momma's got some ass-kickin to do. Ready GO.
