“The guy over there would like to buy you a drink,” the bartender told me. “You can say no if you want.”
“Why in the world would I say no? Of course I’d like the drink!”
A seat opened up next to Mitch, so I sidled over.
“Hi, I’m Debbie.”
“Hi, I’m Mitch.” He was my type: tall, dark, thin, and a little rough-looking—like a cowboy outlaw who’d been riding out in the sun too long. Our drinks turned into dinner, and he told me he was a former car salesman who was now in the mortgage business. He asked me what I did for a living.
“I’m a singer.”
“Really.” He took a drag off his cigarette and squinted. “What do you sing?”
“I’m an opera singer.”
“Well, that’s interesting. Because the friend that I’m waiting for is at the Met, across the street, seeing something called . . . Gudda . . . Gadda . . .”
“Götterdämmerung?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“That’s the fourth opera in Wagner’s Ring Cycle. I’m not in that one. I sing Sieglinde in the second opera.” He had no idea what I was talking about.
“Well, you should stay and meet my friend. He’s coming to join me after the show. He’s a big opera fan.”
Well, this oughtta be priceless, I thought.
A minute later, in walks the friend.
“Hey, Fred,” says Mitch. “I just met this lady, Debbie . . .”
Fred looks at me, stunned.
“That’s Deborah Voigt, the opera singer! She’s singing with Plácido Domingo, for God’s sake!”
Once you were paired with Plácido, I had learned recently, you entered the solar system of stardom yourself.
I could see stars in Mitch’s eyes; he was hooked. Mitch was a sucker for a woman who could offer money and fame. He told me later, though, that at first he’d thought I was a high-class hooker, which, strangely, flattered me. He must have thought I was attractive, I thought. How twisted is that? I was charmed by him in a sick, bad-boy way, and he supplied what I needed—someone who made me forget myself. So I took him home with me. He picked up liquor on the way and stayed until five a.m.
“Where’s your next engagement?” he asked, before taking off in the dark.
“Lisbon, Portugal.”
“I’ll meet you in Lisbon.”
A FEW WEEKS later, he arrived at the Lisbon Portela Airport. He emerged out of immigration control drunk, and spectacularly so.
“I have a gift for you,” he slurred, through the cigarette dangling from his lips. “I feel our relationship could be something significant, and I want you to know I’m serious about pursuing you.”
He opened my right hand until my palm lay flat, and dropped a diamond into it. This was something Aristotle Onassis was famous for doing with Maria Callas, handing her a loose diamond all by itself, so I swooned. (I would find out later that most of Mitch’s romantic gestures had a seedy underbelly—but not just yet.)
Mitch loved to do everything to excess—sex, food, drinking, and partying—and he encouraged me to do the same, so I tried to keep up. I’d never drunk so much in my life. Mitch wined and dined me and threw money around at the best restaurants in Lisbon and showed up at my door with bouquets of red roses and the best champagne. In the beginning, I never spent a dime—he took care of everything (his money, I’d later find out, came from his illegal pot farm in Tennessee). We’d still be awake when the sun came up, after being up all night taking tequila hits straight from the bottle. At dinner, he held my chair for me. He was fucked up, and he was a criminal, and I was his willing prisoner.
“I like you big,” he’d tell me, “I want a woman with meat on her. If the Jacuzzi doesn’t overflow when a woman gets in, she’s too small. But listen, baby”—he’d take a long drag on his Marlboro—“if you want to lose weight, I’ll help you lose weight. If you want to gain weight, I’ll butter your bread.” It was one of the best lines I’d ever heard.
“Mitch, do you drink like this all the time?”
“Only on days that end in a ‘Y,’ baby.”
God, he was fun. Mitch was a perfect man-drug for me—his wildness got me out of myself immediately, completely, and I needed him intensely. And he knew how to make my codependence grow. He kept me in an ever-tipsy state when I wasn’t working, and pushed me beyond my comfort levels—often in unhealthy ways, but sometimes in good ways, too. One night in Lisbon we decided to go nightclubbing (for the first time in my life!). It was one a.m. when we arrived at a very chic-chic disco filled with dozens of fantastic-looking transsexuals standing around in their high heels, showing off their sculpted legs.
“Why isn’t anyone dancing?” I wondered aloud, as we got drinks at the bar.
“They’re waiting for somebody to start. You want to see?” He jumped off his stool. “C’mon, come with me!”
The idea of getting on a dance floor in general was nerve-wracking to me, let alone being the first one out there, where everyone would be watching me. But Mitch never took no for an answer. He pulled me off my stool and dragged me to the middle of the room.
Within five minutes we were surrounded and the floor was packed and moving. Mitch’s daring personality constantly energized me. We’d go up onto hotel rooftops and dance at ungodly hours and he’d call me his little vampire because I refused to go to sleep, I was so “on.”
MITCH CONVINCED ME to do things I would have never done, like get naked in a coed sauna. At our next rendezvous, in Germany, I was performing concerts with the Staatskapelle Dresden, one of the greatest orchestras in the world. We were staying at a beautiful five-star hotel and after my concert we went back to the hotel, had a few cocktails, and Mitch lured all 250 pounds of me into the coed sauna. As I lay on my back, topless, with a tiny towel across my lower lady bits and my flesh flopping about everywhere, two guys came in.
“Guten Abend, guten Abend,” we all murmured to each other. The two men continued to talk in German as I shut my eyes and relaxed . . . until I started to recognize some of the words. Konzert . . . Staatskapelle . . . Fuck! They were asking me, “Are you Deborah Voigt who just sang with the Staatskapelle Dresden?” I must have blushed from head to toe, and surely they could see it; meanwhile, Mitch was ripping his guts out laughing.
Other times, he could be moody, rude, and selfish. Mitch never watched me perform; he wasn’t interested in that side of me, and couldn’t give a shit about opera. He’d sit through a few minutes and then take off at intermission to wander through the silent, empty opera house lobby. He’d stop at every bar on every level, downing drink after drink, smoking like a chimney when it was still allowed. If it was Wagner, the added hour or two meant at least four extra drinks. When the opera was over, I’d be back in my dressing room, relieved and happy, with friends popping in to offer their congratulations. Mitch would arrive with two pints of chocolate-chocolate-chip Häagen-Dazs and two plastic spoons, impatiently circling the crowd of well-wishers, wanting my attention on him. It didn’t occur to me that his behavior was disrespectful. I’d just been married to someone who had spent his entire life, all his energy, on me and my career, so I was ready for someone who wanted nothing to do with it.
He was, however, very interested in how people fussed over me, and the fact that my photo was all over the place, and that he was dating the on-the-verge-of-big-big-fame opera star Deborah Voigt and all the celebrity that surrounded that. So when an opera I was singing had a celebrity onstage, and paparazzi at the stage door, Mitch made sure he was there.
BUT BACK TO that spring of ’96, when I first laid eyes on him. At that time I had also just met the famous tenor Plácido Domingo, a man as different from Mitch as you can get. I was singing Sieglinde in Die Walküre opposite Plácido for the first time, and do I even need to mention that I was oh so nervous?
“You’re going to love him, you’re going to looooove him,” my director, Phebe Berkowitz, kept saying.
“But I’m scared because he’s Plácido Domingo!”
“Debbie, he is the nicest and most workmanlike guy ever. He shows up, he doesn’t know his part most of the time but he works hard and he gets through it. He’s kind to everyone and he’s Plácido Domingo, so the theater goes crazy to have him there.”
That turned out to be exactly my experience with him. At first, when he walked into the rehearsal room at the Met, my heart pounded out of my chest.
We were rehearsing in the basement, on the C-level, three floors underneath the Met stage, and it was like being in a dungeon. There was no air in the room and it had crappy lighting so everyone always had a headache by the end of the day because it was so stifling and we’re all squinting. New productions always rehearsed there because the area is the exact size of the Met stage; also, a mock-up of the set is usually provided, or at least the floors will be taped to show the edges of platforms and scenery.
Plácido walked into rehearsal a few days later than the rest of us, like most of those famous tenors did—that was usual. He looked handsome, he smelled great, and he had no entourage. He went out of his way to show everyone he was one of the gang and, just like Phebe promised, he fumbled just like the rest of us, too.
His English was fluent but his German, not so much. I don’t speak German well, either, but I’ve always had a voice that was more naturally placed to sing German music—it’s a brighter, more forward sound. Plácido’s is rounder, more Italian, so getting those German words out is harder for him.
During rehearsal, he’d forget words or stumble, but he always stayed calm, and his difficulty endeared him to me. He was both sweetly apologetic and complimentary as we worked together, saying: “Debbbbeeee . . . that phrase . . . your phrase, she is beautiful. . . . Please, excuse my mistakes.”
He had a very quiet spirit about him—unlike me, who wanted to crawl into a corner and roll up in a little ball if I made a mistake or couldn’t remember the words.
All my life, except for my childhood musical period, I’ve had trouble memorizing, and I’ve always been very, very good at procrastinating. The combination is not so convenient for someone whose job it is to memorize three-hour-long operas in several foreign languages. When prepping for a new role, the usual routine is to start rehearsing on your own, weeks or months in advance, but I agonize at the thought of it, worried it’s going to be hard, it’s going to be boring, it’s going to take so much time.
Once I finally get my ass on the piano bench and concentrate, I’m always surprised how not difficult it is and even enjoyable. It’s my pattern, and after years of trying to improve it, one of my coaches finally said to me, “Debbie, you’ve been doing it this way all your life. What makes you think you can change now?”
I try not to beat myself up about it and accept the fact that I’ll usually arrive at the first rehearsals feeling woefully unprepared and filled with angst.
Not Plácido. He was always in good cheer, knowing he’ll get it done somehow. It’s one of the things I loved best about him—he didn’t let any mishaps faze him. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t cry (like me) if he screws up a word; he sings that messed-up word with conviction, beauty, and passion and he sells out the house.
I loved playing Sieglinde with Plácido.
As my career progressed, I was beginning to understand and respect these women I played onstage, especially Sieglinde in Die Walküre. She was sad but gutsy—a lot like me, I think. As I’ve said, I wasn’t a born opera fan, but I did love playing these great, passionate women.
In the story, Sieglinde is taken by a man from a warring tribe, a man she doesn’t love, and, forced to basically be this man’s slave, she lives in constant sadness and despair. She’s a woman living in an unenlightened era, what’s she going to do? Where is she going to go? How would she survive on her own? I could relate to her sadness; it touched something deep inside me. She’s trapped and isolated, which is how I’ve often felt. And yet, in the core of her being Sieglinde is hopeful—she doesn’t give up hoping that something better will come along.
When I sing her, I get choked up at the words and I have to remind myself to act it, not really feel it myself, or the emotions will clog up my vocal cords. Actors onstage or on film can afford to feel the emotions their characters are experiencing because they don’t have to belt out a Wagnerian aria at the same time. But an opera singer has to act it on the surface without feeling it too much or they won’t be able to sing. With Sieglinde, especially, I sometimes catch myself holding my breath from the emotions, robbing myself of oxygen I’m going to need. I have to pull myself out of her sadness so that I can do my job. I can’t let myself get carried away.
It wasn’t too difficult to pull myself out of Sieglinde’s melancholy when I was playing opposite Plácido.
One of the greatest memories I have with him is when we walked out onstage after the first act of Die Walküre. I knew it had gone well, the chemistry between us was palpable. There’s a scene where Sieglinde passes out and Siegmund must hold me in his arms—Plácido is so romantic and tender in the scene, gently stroking my face and hair. He makes you feel so present in the moment, because he is.
When we went out for that first curtain call it was like the breath being knocked out of us. The energy that poured out of that audience and the way they applauded and yelled . . . it was astounding. It was applause for Plácido, but I realized it was for Debbie, too. I was very proud of myself—especially because four weeks earlier, I had felt so intimidated.
THE REVIEWER FOR the New York Times wrote:
Deborah Voigt, also rarely heard in Wagner, sang her first Sieglinde in the house, and gave an account that matched Mr. Domingo’s Siegmund superbly. Like Mr. Domingo, she offered a personal rather than monumental approach, for which her fully powered, clear-textured and sharply focused soprano was well suited.
And if all that wasn’t enough, I also had The Kiss.
There’s a moment in the opera where our two characters kiss, and every beat of our acting is timed perfectly to Wagner’s music: the orchestra ascends, then it settles on a chord, and then . . . The Kiss. On the night of our first kiss, as I watched him move toward me, I was jolted out of character and thought to myself: Oh my God. I am onstage, singing with Plácido Domingo! How did this happen? In what universe and with what luck did I end up here?
I wanted to laugh. True, it was a “stage” kiss, but there was definitely lip-on-lip contact for several seconds, and it was magic. In that moment, I wasn’t Sieglinde anymore. I was Debbie Voigt from Wheeling, Illinois, onstage in front of thousands of people, being kissed by Plácido Domingo.
It was real, and it was spectacular.
( 13 )
Blood, Death, and Grace
I FELT THE sharp edge of Mitch’s hard boot smash against my browbone, barely missing my left eye. Mitch and I were having one of our take-no-prisoners arguments and this time it had gotten physical and I was left bloodied and bruised.
I was staying with him in Miami in 1999 while singing the role of Lady Macbeth in Verdi’s Macbeth at the Florida Grand Opera, a character known for her bloody motives and morbid end. The drama offstage between Mitch and me was just as fiery as that between the Scottish king and his queen.
We’d got into some big argument—I’m sure we were both drunk at the time—and we were sitting by a big glass coffee table. We were both ready to explode. I was getting up from the couch, and at that same moment, Mitch, who was standing, moved to give the coffee table a swift kick—his steel-toed boot landing full force above my eye instead, nearly knocking me out cold. It was an accident, but the reality of how serious it could have been stared back at me when I looked in the mirror minutes later and saw my eye turning purple.
I’d been with Mitch for over three years now (too long), and gone were the days of roses, chair pulling, and him paying for things. And that diamond he had so ceremoniously given me at the airport in Lisbon, which I had made into a necklace? It was now an instrument of warfare. On at least three separate occasions when h
e’d gotten angry he’d ripped it off my neck. (I found out later that the diamond had belonged to a guy who owed Mitch money and that he’d pried the stone out of his wife’s engagement ring to pay the debt.) My therapist warned me that if I didn’t leave him, I’d end up seriously hurt.
I had begun to see a therapist to talk about my food and weight issues: I was gorging and topping the scales again since my beloved fen-phen had been yanked off the market after giving people heart-valve problems. Inevitably, our therapy sessions about emotional eating quickly led to talk of the men in my life, and the therapist warned me that my way of dealing with men, specifically Mitch, was more dangerous for me—emotionally, physically, financially, and mentally—than my uncontrollable eating and obesity, and that’s saying a lot. Mitch had acted as my “assistant” for a few months while I was looking for a new one, and he’d racked up $20,000 in restaurant and strip-bar bills in two months with his no-goodnik buddies. When I saw the credit-card bill, I was shocked and took the card away from him. After that, he turned mean and drank more. The more he drank, the meaner he got.
After he kicked me, I grabbed my keys and purse and ran out of the apartment. But I’d left one very crucial item behind—the new antidepressant I’d been prescribed to elevate my lows and soften my anxieties. Those pills had been keeping me sane during the last stages of my so-called romance with Mitch, and they were sitting on the kitchen counter. I parked across the street, waiting to see if Mitch would leave so I could go back in and get my meds, and called my therapist for advice.
“Do not go back in there,” the doctor told me. “I’ll give you a new prescription.” But I also didn’t have the clothes I needed for rehearsal the next day. By this time, my eye was swelling up so much it was nearly shut. I waited for a while more, then took a chance and slipped back in. He had ransacked the place and gone through my drawers looking for money. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he’d taken my antidepressants, just to hurt me. And if there was a time this woman needed her antidepressants, it was now.
Call Me Debbie: True Confessions of a Down-to-Earth Diva Page 15
