But this is a relatively slow tumble so my own angle of impact with the field is hard. Even though I roll like a ninja and am back on my feet before the horse is, there is something wrong with my shoulder. My collarbone has a new flexibility in a place that it shouldn’t. Damn! It’s broken. The horse is fine, but there is no more polo for me this summer. Pity also about that Police album that we were just about to record.
The following summer we are so overhandicapped that we can’t even get past the local lads into any of the big tournaments. But Outlandos has gone international. With our chums Bruce Green and Robert Hanson we play all over the world. Kenya, Switzerland, Japan, Jamaica, and across America we show up, and the local oligarchs and masters of the universe entertain us on their yachts, chalets, hot rods, and horses. They get sponsors and have a big day playing “England”—as in Denver vs. England—and the home team gets to win every time. We are on their horses and are hungover from their entertainment, and they are playing in front of their friends, girlfriends, and wives.
Collin is an excellent social climber and more than compensates for my natural laziness in this regard. This is how one glorious July Fourth I find myself on the main ground at Cirencester locked in polo combat again with the Prince of Wales. This time it’s just a Sunday game with no big trophy at stake. But for me it’s a matter of national honor. I’m the most patriotic American on the planet as I aggress directly upon British royalty on this Independence Day. We are being protected by Secret Service men around the field as, with elbow, knee, and horse, I confound his play in any way that I can.
“No Taxation!…”
Bump!
“…Without Representation!”
Bump!
“Boston Tea Party!”
Bump!
He takes it with pretty good cheer. With his fine horses he’s able to escape my colonial embrace and have a pretty decent day anyway and, unlike his ancestor George, is able to at least tie the game.
CHAPTER 12
OPERA
HOLY BLOOD, CRESCENT MOON
SEPTEMBER 1989
I never imagined, when I first discovered music that I’d end up commissioned to write a grand opera. Of course it had to be about the Crusades.
J
ust the other day I was a punk rocker, but now I’m an opera composer. So when I walk the stormy Chiltern Hills with the wind in my hair and a torrent of music raging in my head, I have the companionship of Puccini and Wagner to puff me up. My friends are perplexed. Opera?! A guaranteed career killer, even more ruinous than jazz. Opera generates no income but burns up hours, days, years of creative energy. I earn a living flogging film scores in the gaps between orgies of opera composition. Artistically, opera is a natural progression for a film composer. In the same way that the central creative authority in a movie is the director, in opera the composer is boss of everything. I think this tradition comes from the fact that most opera composers are safely dead. It all began as a cute anecdote. When Michael Smuin, the fight director of my first film (Francis Ford Coppola’s Rumble Fish) became the director of the San Francisco Ballet, he commissioned me for a ballet, which was performed there in 1984. At a postshow press conference I was asked if I would ever write another ballet. The flippant reply was, “Sure, when I finish my opera.” It got a laugh in a room full of hardened critics, and landed me with this commission. Cleveland Opera director David Bamberger’s son, Steven, picked up the quote on national TV and harassed his father into contacting me. David now likes to joke, “I send my son to Duke University, give him a million-dollar opera, and now he wants a car!”
It seemed easy at first. The first idea was to turn the ballet (Lear) into an opera, but it just didn’t work. I had used up my enthusiasm for Lear and his wretched daughters. The Crusaders seemed like a better way to go. Their ignorant fanaticism and their wild superstitions seemed just perfect for overwrought singing.
The only person I knew who had ever seen an opera was my friend the playwright Susan Shirwen. She introduced me to that melodious word libretto. It has a ring to it: Librrrettto. She took me to Salome (awful), Calisto (fun), and Mask of Orpheus (incomprehensible). The problem was that I couldn’t discern any music in all the yodeling. Is that soprano capable of uttering melody? Perhaps an audiophysicist could find a tune there under the vibrato, but I was unmoved. English, Italian, German, or Welsh—they were all shouting at one another. I could never have sold that hackneyed score to any of my directors. But with an eager heart I got started anyway, sustained by the brazenly arrogant idea that there wasn’t anything wrong with opera that a good opera couldn’t fix. Ha!
The exercise of setting dialogue to music, however, turns out to be deeply engrossing. With my computer I can conjure up a facsimile of the music. For the vocal parts, I have to sing everything myself—all of the parts. I quite fancy myself as a baritone, but nobody will ever want to hear my soprano renditions. It’s a very ugly falsetto. I get through the first act—about an hour of music for full orchestra, choir, and soloists—without the benefit of external inspiration. I’m loving what I’m doing, but just don’t get what the masters have done.
A light dawns when I happen across Richard Wagner’s Ring Cycle. It is often said that Wagner’s music is only for adepts; I can’t imagine why. What sentient being wouldn’t respond to Siegfried’s funeral music? It’s the real, hairy-chested stuff: cerebral, majestic, everything. Oh Siegmund, where is that sword? Now I begin to understand what this is all about and can write the second act.
FOUR YEARS AFTER MY first conversation with David Bamberger, I have a two-hour opera score on paper, on the stands in front of sixty players of the Cleveland Opera orchestra.
In a giant rehearsal room, up behind the State Theatre, we are working our way down the chart; after years of toil, I’m literally Facing The Music.
Everything is pretty much working as I had hoped, although the orchestra has contrived a few extra battle scenes and the odd car crash, most of which are my fault. I’m wondering about the wisdom of some of the tricky-dick rhythms. This material is a little more involved than the football notes I generally give to Hollywood studio orchestras. The easy sections sound fantastic and the bars that they play correctly (out of three thousand) are worth the four years of composition. The band has been sight-reading up until now and the heroic conductor, Imre Palló, assures me that they will be able to figure it all out by showtime. These first readings are really only to check the parts for spelling mistakes. After today’s rehearsal the players can finally take their parts home and learn them. It’s going to be fine, inshallah.
The vocal rehearsals are a different story. David has semistaged a complete, uninterrupted run-through for the benefit of librettist Susan Shirwen and me. The big rehearsal room is filled with choristers and principals, some of whom are cheerfully waving plastic Crusader swords as they sing the Crusader songs. Harry Philby would have loved this.
The chorus is strong enough to lift the roof. Mitchell Krieger, the chorus master, has them tight as a brass section—like Tower of Power. The sound is huge and the atmosphere of the company is exhilarating. They applaud the arias in rehearsal and there have been cheers after the big chorus numbers. They also like the end of act one, in which the sixty choristers and forty supernumeraries (“extras” to you) swashbuckle around the stage in a battle scene that lasts three minutes, ending with a big victory song. It’s an organized riot, with the band hammering in the pit. The other battle scene in act two features my humble self leading the wily Saracens over the wall. I slash, I smite, I leap from the parapet, and, at a big musical moment, I throw my dagger clear across the stage (smoke and mirrors) to skewer King Tancred, who in his death throes pulls down a big tapestry. The ecstasy of a fine operatic death.
One dimension that’s a big revelation is the visual effect of the acting and staging. What the singers do with their bodies while they sing and how they react to one another are facets that are new to me. It’s inspiring to watch David me
ticulously manipulate the soloists, choristers, and supers around the stage to find nuances of the plot that are not in the libretto or music. The plot unfolds with a dramatic power beyond my wildest dreams. They can sing it. I have a sore throat from the lump that has been in it all afternoon. They almost have me weeping at my own music (no great feat).
Meanwhile, at the box office, ticket sales are slow! The State Theatre holds 3,100 and we are at about 1,000 heads per show over the next five nights. The perception seems to be that it must be sold-out; or the ticket prices must be high. I would very much like to know who has bought tickets—opera regulars or pop fans.
So Alletta Kriak has me running ragged on the promotion trail that Kathy Schenker in New York has worked up. I miss the sitzprobe (first time singers and orchestra meet) on Sunday because of promotion duties in New York. I talk to CBS, Time magazine, MTV, VH1, Associated Press, National Public Radio (who are broadcasting the show), and several regional papers over the telephone. I tell the highbrow media that this is not a rock opera; I tell the rock media that this is the Megadeath of opera. I tell the story of how the work was commissioned by David Bamberger’s son as-the-result-of-a-flippant-remark story at least twenty times. I explain that the piece was written on a computer, not by a computer. We get some pretty big coverage: New York Times Magazine—five pages with the headline ROLL OVER WAGNER, Newsweek, Rolling Stone, Opera, Elle, Taxi, Spin, CBS morning news, etc. etc.
Copyright © 2009 Anastaia Pantsios
Back in Cleveland in time for the first piano tech, David meets me in the lobby of the theater, and he starts preparing me for some lumps. This is the first time that the cast gets to work onstage with the newly arrived sets, so we can expect some navigational issues. It drags into five hours of utter chaos. Set changes for which I have written thirty-six seconds of music take half an hour. The battle scene is still raging furiously at the point where the music calls for the Christian victory song. I almost lose my front teeth in my dive from the parapet. “Dead” Muslims have to scramble for safety when the curtain descends. The gigantic tapestry of Christ has him severely cross-eyed. Dahlia’s Muslim costume looks distinctly Romanian (the four gorgeous dresses—for before and after ravishing and for each of the mezzos in this double cast—cost six thousand dollars each). Her twelfth-century maid appears onstage in a sombrero, which is accurate but looks weird. With David’s reassurance in mind, I laugh hysterically at the snafus, but at 1:00 A.M., when it’s over, David is looking very tense. Just to get comfortable with the worst-case scenario, I’ll write my own review:
One gropes for words. Mr. Copeland’s sad attempt at grand opera falls flat as a Belgian baritone. Rhythms that go nowhere, random sprinklings of notes within a pointlessly shifting key structure, and cement-minded bass lines define a music, which obviously owes more to accident than design. Was Copeland laughing at us as he pressed “random access” on his fabled computer? The general effect is a cross between Carl Orff and Donald Duck.
If you were mystified by the mindless meanderings of minimalism, all will become clear with this opera. The world has gone completely mad. Cleveland Opera has sunk so low in its hunger for notoriety as to throw huge resources onto the lap of this entirely undeserving dilettante. Did I hear correctly that this man is the drummer (excuse me, “percussionist”) of a pop group? Surely in all the fine music schools there are young composers with the proper training who could have used these fine sets, magnificent costumes, talented singers, brutalized orchestra, and monumentally broad-minded conductor to give us an opera worthy of the name.
The sheer misery emanating from the pit is surpassed by the gruesome farce onstage for sheer idiocy. The plot is warmed-over Shakespeare of the Romeo and Juliet variety although in this one, as an ingenious twist, the soprano lives and has to suffer through the bitter end while retaining her dinner. The plot seems to revolve around opportunities for swashbuckling and kung fu fighting. In one (of many) battle scenes, the composer himself gets into the fun, culminating his appearance onstage by slaying a perfectly good bass baritone. The other voices are walking wounded by this time anyway. If only one of the supernumeraries could have slain the perpetrator….
OCTOBER 10, 1989
HBCM world premiere! “International Music Event of the Year!”
The house is sold-out by midday. A close shave, but a sellout—that’s 15,300 tickets for 15,000 seats—standing room only for all five shows. The dress rehearsal was brilliant. I’m not too nervous. We all know that the first act is a bit lumpy, but if the second act doesn’t kill ’em, I’ll have to write another opera.
The lights go down, the tune begins. First the imam comes out raving, then the mezzo sings a song. Polite applause. During the first scene there are many moments when the audience is not sure if they should applaud. But they do—dutifully. Then we switch to a Christian sound for an orchestral interlude of two minutes’ duration, which ends in a nifty scene switch when a large tapestry of Christ becomes the interior of a Christian tent. This arouses the first vocal noise from the audience. A few cheers. Not sure if this is for the music or for the set. Soprano aria—good applause, no cheers. The chorus comes on and things start to happen.
TEMPLAR KNIGHT: Saracens!
CHORUS: No! No!
TEMPLAR KNIGHT: Overwhelmed him….
CHORUS: No!
A large sound is coming from the pit and stage and I can feel a thrill around me as I sit in the balcony front row. But the scene drops energy at the end and the curtain goes down. Good applause, no cheers.
Scene three is slow and difficult for the orchestra. Fiddly Arabic rhythms and definitely too many notes. You live and learn, sometimes in public. There is good applause for the mezzo. She gets one of the only real arias, a real tearjerker. Response is good but doesn’t bring the house down. I’m listening for cheering and stomping feet but have to remember that this is an opera. How much cheering does one hear at the English National Opera during a performance? Anyway, I’m stuck here in my seat in the audience. There’s nothing I can do about it from here.
Scene four hits suddenly with swordplay, urgent dialogue, and the big battle scene. For three minutes the chorus and supernumeraries chase each other around the set yelling while conductor Imre and the band let rip. The battle choreography finishes early. The chorus is in position for the victory song sixteen bars before the music pays off, so they continue braying and sword-waving for eight bars, then wonder what to do for another eight bars, and then hit their big number at a full gallop:
For Jesus!
For Jesus!
The Mighty Lamb of God!
Where I grew up we always thought that the Crusaders had kind of missed the point of their own religion. The curtain comes down on the scene, and now the audience is yelling. Not stomping but yelling. Definitely cheers…yes, they are cheering!
During the composition of act one, scene five, I discovered Wagner and it shows. There are no holes for obligatory applause, the action and music are continuous. The audience makes no sound—it is engrossed and this is actually a more interesting atmosphere in the theater. But the scene and act finale don’t quite pay off. Staging is difficult, and by the time we get the “dead” Muslims onto their resurrection stand, we run out of music. If only I had put a repeat sign around bars 1,671 thru 1,683. Alas! The crescendo is incomplete. The act ends with good applause, no cheers.
Before the lights come up I dash backstage for makeup and wardrobe for my operatic debut as a supernumerary. The atmosphere back in the green room is jubilant. Much back-slapping and photos with the choristers. Then it’s time for the little battle scene, known to the crew as “Stewart’s Leap.” I climb up the battlements like when I was a kid. This time I’m a wily Saracen. The magnitude of the whole adventure hits me as I peer out from under an inch of pancake makeup down at the stage heaving with battle and the orchestra pit surging with my music. And about three thousand head of punters—wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
The curtain comes
down on the scene with its heavy velvet, too thick to hear the response on the other side. Scrubbing off the incredibly thick stage makeup is more difficult than painting it on, so I don’t get back into the house until the final windup of the opera. There is a deeply engrossed atmosphere and the finale builds with intense concentration from the audience. At the climax, the drama switches with a loud bang. The tables are turned! The opera ends with a piquant little duet lament from the mezzo and the soprano. There is a chord that I am rather proud of. The curtain comes down on the opera.
I am out of my seat running down the stairs for the curtain calls. As the audience recedes behind me, my practiced hungry ears are tuned…. Very good applause, a few cheers. Well, shit! Come on! At the wings I can see the chorus are onstage bowing. Very good applause. Even better when the soloists start going on. The four Templar Knights get a big cheer, and it builds for the mezzo, soprano, and tenor. There is a big shout and sustained applause for the conductor Imre that carries through David and the central production figures. David comes to get me, brings me out on the stage and, God bless my soul…the audience is on its feet screaming. A regular certified standing ovation with very good applause, much cheering, standing, but no stomping. I kneel down at the lip of the stage and salute the orchestra on bended knee and with raised fist. This premeditated pandering breach of curtain ritual induces flashbulbs and stomping. Thank you Very Much! I am so dumbfounded that I forget to bring out the librettist. It takes tenor Jon Garrison’s excellent diction and operatic vocal power to communicate to me through the hubbub: “GET SUE!”
Strange things happen: a life with the Police, polo, and pygmies Page 8
