The Inner Voice: The Making of a Singer

by Renee Fleming

  Every cell in my body was screaming, No! I cannot do this! Stage fright makes you feel as if you will die if you go out on the stage. In such a situation, the positive effect of an excellent therapist cannot be underestimated. There were too many issues in my life and my mind’s response to them that I just didn’t understand. Guidance in these areas can be critically helpful when you start pushing yourself out past the places where you’re naturally comfortable, especially when you have a tendency toward self-sabotage anyway. As a woman, in particular, I feel I wasn’t socialized for success. Number two, the first runner-up, gazing adoringly at the winner, had always been my favorite role.

  When it came time to go back to New York and sing the Countess, I was actually more panicked than I had been in San Francisco. In Streetcar, I had been afraid of the stage, but because the music had been written for me I was completely comfortable in it. Even though there was no role I had sung more often than the Countess, it never stopped being a challenge, with “Dove sono” still inspiring nothing but nerves. I could feel myself moving back into the tunnel. On opening night, just before the curtain went up on act 2, I was backstage waiting to go on and started wondering if there was some graceful way I could slip out of the theater without anyone’s noticing. Then Beverley Johnson came back to my dressing room. Staring at me with those piercing blue eyes, she held my hand tightly and said, “You will do this. You will go out there and sing.” She knew exactly what I was feeling, but wouldn’t let me turn away from her. It was as if she were pouring herself into me, giving me every ounce of her strength and will. Even to this day I can see her piercing eyes at that moment, and the memory gives me strength. She had so much authority in my life, and genuinely understood the depth of my struggle. After she left me, in the remaining minute before my first entrance, I began to feel confident that I wouldn’t be alone anymore. It was then that I felt the vise begin to loosen around my chest and slip away. This is not to say that I never knew fear again; but the horrible, paralyzing darkness gradually broke around me over the course of the next eight months, until finally I could see. I could sing.

  And when I went out on the stage that night, who should join me at the end of “Porgi amor” but my six-year-old daughter, Amelia. Jonathan Miller, who directed the production, had asked me if Amelia could play the invented character of the Count and Countess’s daughter. Automatically I had said no; it felt exploitative. But then he reminded me that the performance would be televised, and mentioned what a wonderful memento it would be to have this tape of the two of us together. I said I would ask Amelia how she felt about it, and she was thrilled. So there she was, my gorgeous, golden-haired girl, holding my hand on the stage of the Met with total confidence during one of the potential turning points of my life. In the finale, the entire cast assembles to sing a joyous chorus that tells the moral of the story. There we were singing when suddenly I heard a very high little voice belting right along with the rest of us. Amelia? For a second I was a little embarrassed, because I realized that no one had told her not to join in. But since everyone else was singing, why would she be quiet? She didn’t know the words, but she was faking them well enough. She sang out at the top of her lungs, and I felt more joy in that moment than I remembered feeling in a very long time. I had sung that piece a hundred times before, but tonight was Amelia’s debut, and we were together, hand in hand before the world, healthy, glad, and whole.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BUSINESS

  FORALL THE INVALUABLE lessons I learned about being an opera singer while I was in school—whether chest resonance, languages, style, or how to sing above the staff—no one had ever sat me down and told me to make sure my airfare was covered when I sang in foreign countries. No one said a word about bookings, interviews, or cancellation policies. In short, no one explained anything about how the business works. People don’t naturally think of business as being a concern of artists, least of all the artists themselves. We’re supposed to be like birds: natural, free, trilling our songs on a flowering branch whenever the mood strikes us, living off seeds. But this is the modern world, and even the most profoundly artistic of souls has to pay her taxes on time. For that reason and many others, it is essential that young singers familiarize themselves with the business aspects of their work. No one just walks onto the stage of the Met when she feels like it and launches into an aria, no matter how heavenly her voice is. Scheduling is just one of the many requirements of the job.

  The offers were pouring in at an alarming rate now, and I felt ill equipped to decide between them. My budding international recital career also needed the attention of a full-time booking staff, so after six years together and a wonderful start, Merle Hubbard and I parted company. He had by now left the Breslin agency and started his own fledgling company, at exactly the point when I felt I needed the support of a large office. So I signed with Matthew Epstein at Columbia Artists Management Incorporated, or CAMI, as it is better known. Merle, who loves to say that I am the single most ambitious singer he has ever known, gave me a final, generous gift: an introduction to publicist Mary Lou Falcone. Mary Lou didn’t have any singers on the client list of her boutique agency, which handled several instrumentalists and almost all of the major orchestras in the Western world with a staff of two. I was tremendously fortunate that she took me on, owing perhaps in part to my relationship with the late Arleen Augér, who, like Lucia Popp, had succumbed to cancer at an early age. Arleen had been a friend and a client, and I met Mary Lou when I sang at Arleen’s New York City memorial.

  Mary Lou and Matthew quickly set up a team to oversee my career, consisting of the two of them and the various executives of my new record company, Decca. I can remember meetings at which I sat for hours just listening to them, a student again, as I realized that I still had an enormous amount to learn about the business I was in. Matthew and Mary Lou were both extremely experienced and successful in running the careers of musicians. One of their first goals for me involved my recital debut at Carnegie Hall, two years in the future, which they were determined to sell out. Mary Lou has a real brilliance for and strong opinions about pacing—when to have an article written and where to have it appear—and she knew which opportunities should be passed on to avoid overexposure. Often, it’s important not to pursue too much press before an event, which raises expectations to a level that’s impossible to satisfy. A seasoned publicist has the ability to build things slowly and steadily and to see exactly what needs to be done. The notion of turning down publicity—or anything, for that matter—was a new one to me, and it seemed totally illogical at first. “You’re not going to be hyped,” Mary Lou would say. “We’re going to concentrate on a steady upward trajectory.”

  I panicked and felt sure that other singers would pass me by, leaving me in the dry, dull dust; but she held firm, and over time I came to see the logic of her arguments. Too many singers are overly praised in advance of their appearances, before they have time to develop, and then, in turn, are unfairly vilified later in a wave of backlash. Years of training and professionalism could easily be undone by too many magazine articles in which I would come across more like a young starlet than a serious artist. I certainly had no history and no experience to guide me through these potential pitfalls.

  Matthew wanted to help me establish focus in my schedule and in my repertoire choices. He suggested that I specialize more in Mozart, Strauss, and Handel, and probably would have been pleased if I had given up the Italian repertoire altogether. I saw his point and agreed that I needed to narrow my interests, but I wasn’t willing to give up the Slavic repertoire, or new music, or my beloved French composers—and really, I wasn’t going to give up the Italians completely, either. Bel canto was one of my great passions. Getting me to limit my repertoire was a task akin to turning a ship around while it’s going full speed ahead. I knew I needed to cut back, for maintaining a high quality of artistic interpretation is nearly impossible when there’s so much music to learn. At some point it be
comes a question of survival. I knew I had to stop trying to be all things to all people. After years of confusion on this subject, I finally decided to limit my repertoire, but not to become a specialist, and looked to the careers of singers such as Victoria de los Angeles, Lotte Lehmann, and Eleanor Steber as templates. My taste, and my penchant for musical exploration, simply did not allow me to call myself a Mozart/Strauss specialist exclusively.

  When Matthew left CAMI to become the artistic director of the Lyric Opera of Chicago just a few short years after he began to manage my career, I was pleased for him while at the same time feeling disappointment for myself. His strength and conviction as a manager had taught me so much about staying focused on the larger picture and making a long-range plan, or even a complete career plan, for that matter. He stressed batting instead of fielding—actually pro-actively deciding what I wanted to do, rather than just considering the offers as they came in. He has been one of the strongest impresarios in the industry, whether as a manager or as the artistic director of one of the world’s most important theaters. His presence at a performance can propel the audience into a frenzy, since he shouts bravos freely and resonantly throughout. For a live operatic recording of mine we actually chose a take from a performance that he attended, because his presence in the hall so clearly added to the excitement of the night. Most important, he is the most passionate person I have ever met in the business. We weren’t always in agreement in regard to the direction I should take, since I eventually absorbed a great deal and had a few ideas of my own, but I still appreciate his advice and care.

  Matthew suggested I work with Alec Treuhaft at CAMI, and after meetings, consideration, and my usual polling, I did. Alec has fully embraced my need to stay home with my daughters as much as humanly possible, and has therefore managed to greatly reduce my operatic commitments while increasing those for recitals and concerts. He is thoughtful, has enormous integrity, is highly respected, and speaks softly but carries . . . well, you know. An opera production requires a time commitment of a minimum of four weeks and as much as eight weeks, and at best I’d probably find myself in the same six cities year after year. Recitals and concerts allow me to perform in as many as thirty cities a year, for audiences who wouldn’t otherwise hear me, while still spending much more time at home. Alec left CAMI not long after I joined his list, and he moved to IMG, where I have been with him ever since. Alec’s job isn’t always easy where I’m concerned. He has to apply firm pressure now and then to get me to stick to the program, and in that respect reminds me of how Leontyne Price told me to tune out the noise and concentrate on my throat: “You won’t gain anything by trying to please everybody.”

  In regard to work, my theme song in that period was very definitely “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No.” Although I never found turning down inappropriate repertoire to be difficult, merely keeping control of an overwhelming schedule was next to impossible for me. The problem lies in the different rates at which the scheduling is done. What looks perfectly manageable five years in advance—which is when opera engagements are fixed—can begin to look rather crowded two years in advance, as I neglected to account for the last-minute press interviews, the television appearances, the children’s horse shows, concerts, and illnesses, and my own friends and family.

  One of the great assets of being with a professional management company is its international booking departments, which can efficiently organize a worldwide tour. Alec, who is my worldwide manager, is based in New York and is responsible for the overview of all of my scheduling and specifically for dates in the United States. Peter Wiggins, my longtime manager based in Paris, takes care of most of Europe, and there are additional tour managers based at IMG in London for larger concerts and appearances worldwide. They receive or suggest the offers and present them to me through Alec, and I decide on them based on a consideration of my schedule and whether or not the engagement is either artistically interesting or important—such as an appearance with a major company or conductor, or one that offers an opportunity for exposure. My management negotiates the contract, which for opera will usually include a round-trip flight but no housing, and until very recently for concerts, neither. The management receives as commission a percentage of the fee, which is split with the European management if the engagement takes place on the Continent. Alec also negotiates my recording contracts, which include royalties, an advance on royalties, and a per diem during recording sessions. Only recently I received my first small royalty payment after eight years with Decca, which means that it took that long for my recordings actually to be in the black.

  It sometimes seems as if it’s a full-time job to maintain communication among my managers, Decca, and the various marketing and publicity teams. Between coordinating my opera and recital calendar, making and promoting recordings, and supporting my engagements in new cities with press interviews, I often feel as if I’m the chairman of the board of Renée Fleming, Inc. In some respects it is a company we’re talking about, and all of the salient marketing principles apply.

  Hearing me bemoan the media’s glass ceiling in regard to classical music a year ago, a close friend introduced me to the veteran Holly-wood impresario Sandy Gallin. He observed that although I may have accomplished a great deal in the world of classical music, the public at large probably knows very little about that achievement. “In addition to the work you’ve already done,” he told me, “what you need is someone who will have the clout to get you on television.” Sandy introduced me to Pat Kingsley of PMK, the powerful Holly-wood publicist, who graciously agreed to help, and is generating opportunities to reach a wider audience through television appearances and other media outlets that are not usually receptive to opera singers.

  These days, it sometimes feels as if I spend more of my time on the logistics of singing than I do on the art and performance of it. I go over every detail of every travel schedule, interview, recording, repertoire choice, and program (now that I’m performing less opera, programming has become an enormously time-consuming job), to the point that I often feel as if I’m planning a military campaign rather than a tour. I once knew a woman who kept a diary of all the dinner parties she gave: what food was served, what wine, the guest list and who sat next to whom, what she wore, what was discussed, the plates, the linens, the music that was played. That amount of minutiae is not too far removed from what I have to keep up with in my career. I have to remember what I’ve sung in New York so as not to repeat myself there too often. Gone are the days in the Potsdam jazz club when I could belt out the same songs every weekend and only have to worry about whether or not my jokes were fresh. I keep track of which gowns I wore at venues all across the world, because, believe me, my Parisian fans would notice if I came onstage in last year’s dress.

  At the heart of it all is my schedule of singing engagements. The practice of planning operas five years in advance began in response to the frenzy created by Luciano Pavarotti and Plácido Domingo. Their appearances could sell out an entire season in subscriptions, so the competition to sign them up became fierce. Individual orchestral concerts can be discussed as early as three years in advance but aren’t generally contracted until approximately eighteen months to a year before. In general, it takes less time than that to schedule recital tours with either orchestra or piano. Ideally, a new recording will also be supported by a tour, or by related performances, but the timing of this is difficult, given the way a calendar can fill up before the recording is even finished. To the performance schedule, I then have to add personal and business demands, because singing is only a part of the overall picture. Interviews are planned in support of tours and engagements, which can require an entire day devoted to press, one interview after another; photo shoots are scheduled, events are attended, and I still have to get up at seven a.m. to accompany my daughter to the school-bus stop.

  In scheduling I also need to think carefully about how different roles will be juxtaposed. Extreme changes in styles of singing
aren’t recommended for vocal longevity, as they can fatigue and stress the muscles and weigh negatively on nerves and technique. One of the factors cited to explain the early decline of Maria Callas is that she sang Verdi, bel canto, and even Wagner roles back-to-back. Fortunately, I have never really been asked to sing “everything.” Sir Georg Solti suggested Isolde, Leonore in Fidelio, and Leonora in La Forza del Destino during our three years of work, but I knew that he simply felt that he wanted to hear a voice he loved in whatever he was conducting. Alternatively, some mixture of opera, concerts, and recitals, as long as there are a few days in between for turnaround, does my voice good. Too much consecutive Mozart can have me singing in too controlled a fashion, fearful of singing out, while too much singing at the opposite extreme of my repertoire can make it more difficult for me to sing softly and with refinement. While I have always felt compelled to sing the greatest variety of music possible, I have been careful to keep it all within appropriate vocal parameters.

  Planning and programming a recording is a collaborative effort involving Decca, my management, and myself and is a surprisingly arduous process, as it involves deciding not only what repertoire, but when and with whom. In a perfect world, I could choose a repertoire that suited my voice, that I adored, that extended from the popular to the unknown; the repertoire would already have been performed and layered; and the quality of the conductor and orchestra, or the pianist, would be on the highest level. Obviously, this isn’t a perfect world. When I recorded Strauss’s Vier Letzte Lieder with Christoph Eschenbach and the Houston Symphony, I had never sung this cornerstone of the soprano concert repertoire, a piece that already boasted many wonderful recordings. Using twenty-four different interpretations—some commercially recorded and some pirated performances—I tried to come to terms with the recorded history of the piece. Fortunately, since it had been premiered in 1950, this was possible, beginning with the great Norwegian dramatic soprano Kirsten Flagstad, who sang the first performance. Armed with that knowledge, I then began to forge my own interpretation, to make the piece my own, without the experience of performances. An interpretation exists because of what we find between the notes, and it is the only way for us, other than by timbre, to make ourselves distinctive. A brilliant execution of any phrase is only the beginning. Can something fresh be said with it? Can something personal be expressed? We dream that one day our talent, intelligence, and inspiration can take us from being a singer to the exalted station of artist.