On learning a foreign language (Part 2)

It's been a year and a half now since I last wrote about learning a foreign language.  A lot has changed since then.  I'm starting to get the hang of this German business now, and for the most part I get by.  I'm certainly nowhere close to being fluent, but somehow I am managing to function every day auf Deutsch.

Of course, it does help that I finally sucked it up and hit the books.  Last spring I signed up for an intensive B1 course at the Volkshochschule in Cologne.  (For those of you not in the know, the Volkshochschule is a German institute for adult education: a much more affordable route for learning German than Berlitz or the Goethe Institute, although you won't get any official accreditation).  The course gave my German skills a major boost.  The biggest difference I noticed was my grammar.  Before taking the course I would often just throw random words together into a sentence, and pray it made some kind of sense.  Now I'm much more conscious of things like cases and word order.  The rules haven't yet become automatic, but at least now I think about them and try to correct myself.

I have progressed.  Really, I have.  And people are noticing.  But no matter how good my German gets, it never feels real.  The truth is, most days I feel like a big fat fraud.  It's like I'm putting on an act for everyone.  I don't really speak German – I'm just playing the role of someone who does.  I'm constantly acting, pretending, struggling to "pass" – and hoping that people won't see right through me.

There are days I'm so sure that someone will turn around and call my bluff.  "YOU don’t belong here!" they'll say.  "You don't REALLY speak German!"

"RAUS, du Lügner!!!"

I always knew learning a new language would be an intellectual challenge.  What I wasn't prepared for was the emotional challenge.  The feeling that you never really fit in, and you never really know what's going on.  The frustration that comes with being unable to express yourself fully or accurately.  The intense homesickness of missing your native language.  The loneliness and isolation that comes with realising you're the only person in the room who speaks it.

All of the feels.

When I first moved to Germany, I used to play it safe.  Surround myself with English speakers, and only speak German when it was absolutely necessary.  It was like I had this safe little English bubble to float around in.

Lalalala.... bubbling around...

But I couldn't stay in this bubble forever.  After all, I wouldn't always have English-speaking colleagues around.  More and more, I began to find myself in situations where nobody else spoke English.  It was overwhelming, and it scared me half to death.  But it left me with no choice.  I had to sink or swim.  If I wanted to survive, I would have to do it auf Deutsch.

How can I explain the discomfort of constantly speaking a language which isn't your own?  It's like an extra layer of challenge has been added to every single part of your day.  Imagine if you could never see things clearly, but instead had to peer through a screen all the time.  You never get a full picture of reality.  You're always squinting and craning your neck, trying to piece together what on earth is going on from what you can – just barely – see.  That's what it feels like speaking German every day.  Some days the screen obscures a lot, and sometimes it's more transparent.  But make no mistake, the screen is always there.

"It looks like... they're saying something.. about..... a bicycle?"

Perhaps the most difficult thing is that, in German, I can't really be myself.  I'm far too self-conscious and slow on the uptake.  I must seem like the most boring person in the world in German.  I hardly say a word aside from "ja" or "stimmt".  Usually by the time I've understood someone and formulated a response, they've moved on to another subject entirely.

One-on-one conversations are fine, because my conversation partner can always slow to my pace.  But group situations are the absolute worst.  As the talk gets lively, everyone starts talking a mile a minute and interrupting each other.  Meanwhile I'm sitting in silence, looking for all the world like a dull and humourless idiot.  It probably seems like I have no thoughts or ideas in my head at all.  The truth is that my head couldn't be busier!  While everyone else is nattering on, I'm making a bunch of complicated linguistic calculations and mental back-flips just to get a basic grasp of what they're talking about.

So much.... translating....

Any friend of mine can attest to the instant transformation I undergo when I switch from German to English.  As I move to my native tongue, all hesitations fall away, and my true self emerges.  One minute I'm dull as dishwater, and the next minute I'm the life of the party.  Hey, who knew it?  Turns out this girl actually has a personality!

For this reason, I still socialise a lot in English.  Most of my friends are other native English speakers, or Germans with very good English (there's a lot of those).  I may be able to make small talk and friendly chat in German, but this always comes with a certain level of awkwardness, and a lingering feeling that I'm doing my math homework.  It's one thing to go through this effort when I'm on the clock, but why would I want it in my down-time?  Only in English can I truly relax.  Only in English can I feel natural, and be myself without worrying about whether I just used the right pronoun.

"Ahhhh.... this is the life."

And so a real dichotomy has developed.  German is my work language, and English is my leisure language.  It's like I put on a German hat to go to work, and take it off as soon as I get home.

I often wonder when this language will become second nature.  When will I be truly fluent?  When will I speak German with bravado and ease?  When will I form a sentence without thinking, is it der, die, or das?

Years later, Joe still wonders if it was "die Birne" after all

One sure sign will be the day I have a real German friend.  I'm not talking about a German friend who speaks English with me.  I'm not talking about a friend-ly German, who speaks simple German with me so we can make superficial chitchat.  I'm talking about a German who speaks to me in German consistently, using sophisticated language, and discusses deep and important issues.  I'm talking about someone who can be real with me in their language, and not have to constantly worry about dumbing things down.  If I can reach that level of understanding with a native German speaker, I'll know I've really made it.

But I have to be patient.  Learning another language is a slow process, and nobody becomes fluent overnight.  It takes years of repetition, immersion, and trial and error.  Sometimes your progress can be so slow it's imperceptible – and other times you'll make a huge leap and completely surprise yourself.  It will be years before I can feel completely comfortable in German.  In the meantime I'll have to be kind to myself, and trust that I'm moving forward.

Ten Tips for Touring

As you may have noticed, I've been doing a lot of touring lately.  As well as travelling around Germany for various projects, this season I've been in a concert tour of China and Korea.  I just got back from a trip to Spain, and I'm now gearing up for a big tour of South America in April.

Being on tour is an intense experience.  You are with the same group of people, repeating the same programme and travelling together for days on end.  It takes a lot of energy and focus, as well as patience and good humour.  Here are some important things which I've learned about what it takes to be a happy touring musician...

(Psst... You might want to start by getting a bigger suitcase)

1. Stay on top of the paperwork

Touring is rarely as simple as flying from point A to point B.  Often you will have to travel to several different locations, and apply for all of the relevant working visas.  Take it from me – you should start on this as early as possible.  Usually your employer will tell you what you need and which forms to fill out, but you may also need to look into some of this stuff on your own.  And even when you think it's all sorted, there can always be further complications and delays.  I recently had to apply for a temporary second passport at the Canadian embassy, and I'm glad I started early.  As it turned out, they needed English translations of the letters from my employers.  This inevitably took some extra time.  Imagine if I had left all of this until the last minute.  I would have never got the passport in time for the tour.  I would have been landlocked, and lost out on ten days of work!

2. Be prepared for anything

Sunshine, rain, snow, plagues of locusts – you need to pack for every possibility you can imagine.  You'll be kicking yourself if you get to a cold concert hall and realise you've forgotten your long sleeves at home.  Never say never.  Anything can happen on tour.

Betty and Jim really wished they had brought their locust repellent with them to Egypt.

3. Bring along a piece of home

Travelling from hotel to hotel can be stressful and exhausting.  So it's important to make your temporary residence as comfortable and home-y as possible.  Everyone has different things which make them feel at home.  Whether it's a cup of tea, a pair of fuzzy slippers, or a favourite movie on their laptop, these things can transform a cold soul-less hotel room into your home away from home.  Don't underestimate the importance of these small creature comforts.  They can really help you negotiate the stress of long-term travel.

Fuzzy slippers are really important, you guys!

4. Find some regularity

Another way to handle the stress of touring is to create your own regularity within the irregularity.  Having some routines and habits can help everything feel a lot less chaotic.  I have a bit of a ritual when I arrive at a new place.  I unpack my suitcase in a particular order, I have a short nap if there’s time, and then I warm up before heading to the venue.  It's important to me that I unpack right away, so that I can feel settled as soon as possible.  Aside from my unpacking ritual, I am also a member of a gym which has locations all over Germany.  This means that no matter where in the country I'm working, I can always go to my gym and know my way around.  These may seem like small details, but they really help me feel comfortable on the road.

5. Do some forward planning

When you’re travelling for work, there isn't as much space for being spontaneous as there would be on holiday.  Your sightseeing time is limited, and you can't just wander aimlessly hoping to run into something cool.  So research the places you'll be visiting.  What is unique there which you absolutely must see?  When might you have time between rehearsals and concerts to go and see it?  I'm not saying you have to make yourself a detailed itinerary, but it helps to have a rough idea of what you will see when.  I had an amazing visit recently to the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.  I was particularly inspired by the exhibit of Niki de Saint Phalle.  I'm so glad I put some time aside to go and see it!

Seriously, how cool is this??

6. Pace yourself

Touring requires a lot of energy and endurance.  You have to think of the long game – this is a marathon, not a sprint!  It is of utmost importance that you conserve your health and energy through to the very end of the trip.  Know your own body and be sensible enough to rest when you need it.  You may feel a bit blue about missing a night at the bar or an afternoon of sightseeing, but it's better to make that sacrifice than to end up sick for the rest of the tour.

"Ahhhh.... made it."

7. Keep it fresh

One of the toughest things about touring is that you're usually performing the same piece, over and over.  But just because the music is old news to you, doesn't mean it should sound like that to the audience!  This is the first time they're hearing your performance, and they want to hear something fresh and inspiring.  So don't let yourself coast.  Keep looking for new things in the music, and trying to outdo yourself.  Could that phrase have a smoother legato?  Could that high note have a better approach?  Remember – the biggest room in the world is the room for improvement.

This is also a very big room.

8. Set a budget

You can spend crazy amounts of money on tour if you’re not careful.  The last thing you want is to come home to an empty bank account!  Many employers will pay you a per diem for your meals, which can provide a good guideline for your daily spending limit.  However there are some companies who don't provide a per diem, and if you're not careful you can eat up most of your fee before you've even been paid.  I like to take out a set amount of cash every week, based on a daily spending limit.  Some days I might go above or below this limit, but I always make sure it averages out in the end.  As long as I don't need to take out more cash before the week is out, it's all good.  This trick is even easier if you're visiting a country with a different currency.  If you only buy so many pesos from your bank, you will only have so much with you on tour.

Benito Juarez is judging your spending habits.

9. Do it like the locals

Why go all the way to Japan only to spend all your time in Starbucks?  You have a unique opportunity here to explore a new country.  Get out there and enjoy it!  Check out the local food, the local wines, the theatres, the museums, the festivals and marketplaces – everything which makes this place unique.  You may never have a chance in your life to do all of this again.  So seize the day!

10. Schedule some time to crash post-tour

You will be tired after a tour, especially if it's a week or longer.  So for the love of God, don't plan an important meeting the day you get back!  Sometimes these things can't be helped.  But if you have any control over your schedule (which freelancers normally do) make sure you have an empty day or two when you get home.  You'll need this time to rest, recover, and tackle that giant mountain of laundry sitting in your suitcase.

"Send help!"

Touring can be a real hoot!  It can also be a gruelling nightmare if you're not careful.  In the end, it all comes down to how you approach it.  So be smart and organised, plan ahead, and try to keep a healthy balance between work and play.

I hope these tips will help you make the most of your next tour.  Happy travels!

Tips for Freelancing (Part 3)

Welcome to my third post of freelancing tips!  These are mostly things which I've learned the hard way, "on the job".  I'm posting them here in the hopes that some of you can avoid making the same mistakes.  At the very least, you can enjoy chuckling over my blunders with a mixture of recognition and Schadenfreude.  If you've missed my past posts, you can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

21. Be prepared.

This is one point I have to say I've never struggled with.  I have always been very conscientious about learning my music.  But unfortunately I can't say the same for all of my colleagues.  I have seen people show up at the first rehearsal not knowing a single note of the score.  And it is REALLY annoying.  Any musical endeavour is only as good as its weakest link.  And when someone doesn't know their music, everyone else has to slow down their progress to accommodate them.  This is an extremely unfair burden to place on your colleagues.  Not only is it unprofessional, but it shows a complete lack of consideration and respect for others.  And don't think that your colleagues are the only one who will notice you don't know what you're doing.  The director, the conductor, and any other management present at rehearsals will certainly take note.  You can be sure that no matter how talented you are, they won't want to hire you again.

Scar makes a good point.

22. Dress the part.

I'll never forget my first Messiah.  It was at a cathedral in Paisley.  I wore a beautiful sleeveless sapphire-blue evening gown.  And I almost froze my tits off!  If I had put any thought into my attire (aside from the vanity of wanting to wear a pretty frock) I would have remembered that the Scottish winter is pretty cold, and most churches don't use central heating.  I would have worn thick woolen tights, and a dress with sleeves.  At the very least I would have covered my shoulders with a jacket or a shawl.

Any time you are performing at a new venue, or with a new company, make sure you do your research on what to wear.  Do they have a dress code?  How conservative is the audience?  Are bare shoulders and cleavage frowned upon?  Are women allowed to wear trousers?  And most importantly, how hot or cold are you going to be on stage?  It is essential to dress appropriately if you want to avoid being embarrassed or uncomfortable.

23. Make sure you're on the same page.

Here's another fun anecdote, again from Scotland.  I was hired for my first Vivaldi Gloria.  I immediately got a score from the library, and began preparing my part.  On the day of the concert I made a horrifying discovery: there are two versions of the Vivaldi Gloria, and I had prepared the wrong one.  The edition I had prepared had a considerably shortened version of the duet with the soprano.  We were performing the longer version, and there was a big chunk of music which I had never seen before!  After some panicked photocopying and note-bashing, I managed to get through the concert without disaster.  Needless to say, though, it was not ideal.  This is how I learned I had to check exactly which edition to use.  Don't make the same mistake I did!

24. Check, double-check, and check again.

To Do:
-Make List
-Check Twice

Make sure you're absolutely certain about every last detail.  The repertoire, the fee, the timing of the rehearsals, the address of the venue – anything which risks getting confused or miscommunicated.  Be meticulous about this, and do it well in advance of the gig.  Read and reread any information you've been given.  Make sure there's nothing missing, and if there is something missing, ask.  There is nothing more embarrassing than showing up at the wrong place, or at the wrong time.  There is nothing more uncomfortable than having a misunderstanding with your management about scheduling or money.  So make sure you know everything and are ok with it.  This is what contracts are for.  Which brings us to…

25. Dot your i’s and cross your t’s.

I know, I know.  Paperwork sucks.

"Um... a little help..?"

But most of the time it's there for your sake.  And if you don't pay close attention to it, you could land yourself in deep trouble.  Like any job, freelancing involves important financial and legal considerations.  So get your reading glasses out and protect yourself.  Make sure you're registered for taxes as self-employed.  Educate yourself on which expenses you can claim, and how to prepare and file a tax return.  Get insurance, and if you can, a savings plan.  In Germany we have a wonderful thing called the Künstlersozialkasse (how's that for a mouthful?).  You make monthly payments based on how much you're earning, and in return they pay your health insurance and put money into a pension plan.  This is an invaluable resource for any freelancing musician.  Most importantly, pay careful attention to the paperwork your employers send you.  Any time you get a contract, make sure you understand and agree with everything before signing it.  Remember: you're usually the only one looking out for yourself.

26. You don't have to like everyone, and not everyone has to like you.

This is a hard enough lesson to learn in life, but it's especially painful to acknowledge when it comes to music.  I know we all like to think that music-making is a magical process, and everyone involved is brought together in peace and loving harmony by the beautiful sounds they make.

"Kumbaya my Lord, Kumbaya...."

Let's get real though.  Music attracts all kinds of personalities, including the difficult and unpleasant ones.  Don't get me wrong here.  I hope the majority of your employers and colleagues will be lovely, kind, and friendly people.  I hope you will have lots of things in common, and enjoy each other's company.  But the fact is, not everyone is going to become your new bestie.  In fact, some people might be downright mean to you.  The sooner you learn to accept and cope with this, the better.

27. …But you do have to get along.

You don't have to have go for chummy beers together after rehearsal, but you do have to be civil to each other.  No matter what you might think of someone personally, at the end of the day they still are your colleague.  You have to be able to work with them in a pleasant and respectful way.  And this may not be the last time you work with them.  So stay on good terms.  Don't burn any bridges.

28. Learn to manage your diary.

As a freelancer, your diary can look pretty crazy – especially in December.

What the Christmas season looks like for most of us.

But until you get your own management or can afford a personal assistant (sure, that'll be the day) managing your diary is up to you.  Before you accept another gig, take a good long look at your calendar.  Are you sure you're not double-booking yourself?  Are you sure you're not taking too much on?  Think twice before accepting new commitments.  As for the time between gigs, that's important to manage too.  You'll likely have a long to-do list and a lot of unstructured time in which to tackle it.  Learn to prioritise.  What's urgent?  What's important?  What can wait a bit?  Pay attention to your energy at different points of the day, and try to schedule your work accordingly.  Ideally you would want to do your practising when you're feeling the most energetic and focused. You can save your paperwork and emails for when you're feeling more mellow.

29. Know Yourself

Everyone is always talking about how you have to "sell yourself" in this business.  But how can you sell yourself if you don't know what it is you're selling?  Before you start "getting yourself out there" – auditioning, building a website, networking with prospective employers and so forth – you have to do some soul-searching and answer a few important questions.  What are your unique talents and skills?  What kind of musical and performing personality do you have?  What kind of repertoire suits you best and why?  What kind of work do you want to do?  Your answers to these questions will inform a lot of decisions, such as how you market yourself and who you audition for.  It will also help you feel more focused and confident as you continue to build a career.

30. Add some strings to your bow.

Very few musicians make a living doing just one thing.  It's tough out there, and work is hard to come by.  So if you are going around looking only for work as a concert pianist, you are narrowing your possibilities considerably.  How about being a concert pianist who also accompanies, teaches private lessons, and composes arrangements for their own ensemble?  Now we're talking.  Everyone has their own variety of skills and talents.  So find out what else you can do well, and capitalise on that!  The more diverse your skills, the better your chances of survival.

The most important thing to remember?  Freelancing is a tough business.  And despite all the anecdotes and tips I've tried to share with you on here, you will probably make your own unique set of mistakes.  Don't sweat it too much.  Mistakes are normal.  Just make sure you learn your lesson and move on!

Lucerne Festival - Week 3

Our third week in Lucerne has been nothing short of unforgettable.

We began the week by moving into the concert venue, and meeting our new friends in the orchestra.  On Monday we watched as they did a read-through of the piece, and put us all to shame.  I can't imagine the choir being able to hold the piece together so well on our first day.  We had a full week of sectionals before we even sang together as a full choir!  We were all very impressed by the orchestra, and excited to join them for the first tutti rehearsal.

The Culture and Congress Centre Lucerne, or KKL - home to the Lucerne Festival.

Next it was time for us all to meet our instrument "siblings".  Instead of sitting separately from the orchestra as usual, in Coro the choir sits in the orchestra.  Every singer is paired with an instrument, or "spirit animal" as my friend liked to call it.  This instrument plays alongside you for the whole piece, sometimes in unison, and sometimes embellishing or harmonising with your part.  I was paired with a clarinet, as was my neighbour.  It was somewhat disorienting to go from singing in a choir to sitting in the middle of the orchestra.  I was used to hearing the other altos.  Suddenly all I could hear around me were clarinets and alto saxophone!

Actually, most of the time the orchestra made things much easier for us.  Our instrumental siblings' parts were cleverly written, so that they would often give us our notes.  No more trying to pluck random pitches from thin air!  My tuning fork wasn't such a desperate necessity anymore – still, I liked having it around at all times.  It was something like a security blanket, lying by my side just in case.

"It's ok.  Tuney will keep me safe."

Then again, there were also passages where the orchestra was playing completely different rhythms or notes from the choir.  At times like this you had to be extremely confident with your part –  watch the conductor like a hawk, and just keep plowing ahead.

Speaking of conductors, we were lucky enough to have a great captain at the helm of our crazy ship.  Sir Simon Rattle always kept the rehearsals fun and full of entertainment.  We were all surprised by how human he was.  Despite his fame, he was no diva conductor in an ivory tower.  He was an extremely charming and personable man, and eminently quotable.  We all enjoyed sharing his little quips over facebook and twitter.  In fact if you look up the hashtag "sirsimonsays" you might find a few gems which we heard from him this week.

Sir Rattle made sure that we did a run-through of the piece in each rehearsal.  At first I didn't understand the point of this – surely it wasted a lot of time we should be spending on fixing mistakes and going over the tricky bits?  But after a while I began to see the value of these run-throughs.  Each time we did the whole piece in one go, it held closer together as a whole.  We became familiar with the piece's rhythm and shape.  We knew how each part flowed into the next.  When we had to be on tenterhooks for the next movement, and when we could look forward to a well-earned rest.  With each run-through, we gained a bit of confidence, and the final performance became a bit less daunting.

When you're singing for such a prominent conductor, you tend to take every little thing he says to heart.  One time the Maestro critiqued my English diction, and I was beating myself up about it all day.  Another time I was singing a folky French solo, and he wanted it to sound more dirty.  "You sound like you washed this morning," he said, "and we don’t want that."  I seriously considered not showering for a week, just to please him.  Then again, I don't think my colleagues would have appreciated that.

"WHAT??!  I'm doing this for the sake of art!!"

Between rehearsals, we had the privilege of attending some amazing concerts with world class artists.  Now that the festival had begun in earnest, we regularly had opportunities to hear artists such as Midori or Lang Lang performing live.  Evenings often saw us lining up for last-minute discount tickets, as we tried to soak up as much of the festival as we could.

Before we knew it, the final performance was upon us.  We prepared a free lecture concert, a sort of "aperitif" for anyone interested in hearing the full piece the following day.  The hall filled up very quickly with curious concertgoers.  Some people even had to be turned away at the door.  Sir Rattle spoke to the audience with ease and charm.  He was particularly enamoured with the beanbag chairs in the front row, which he suggested introducing to the Berlin Phil.

BEANBAG CHAIRS FOR ALL!!!!

As the day of the performance arrived, we were all beginning to feel the pressure.  The first half of the concert would also include a world premiere by Korean composer Unsuk Chin, sung by Barbara Hannigan.  Talia Berio, musicologist and second wife of the late Luciano Berio, would be attending.  And we would have the longest list of attending press which the Festival Academy had ever seen.  Coro is a rarely performed piece which has never been heard at Lucerne Festival before.  The piece is notoriously difficult.  Everyone was curious to see how we – and of course, Simon Rattle – interpreted the music.

When we finally walked onstage in the second half of the concert, the air was electric with excitement.  We were all bundles of nervous energy.  But after so many run-throughs and rehearsals, together we felt strong and confident.  We harnessed all our adrenaline and nerves and gave our very best performance.  It was truly a magical hour.

As an encore, at Sir Rattle's suggestion, we sang Purcell’s "Hear my prayer o Lord".  It made a soulful, reflective epilogue to the concert, and contrasted starkly with Berio's intense, chaotic piece, which Rattle had described to us as a "21^st century version of a Bach passion."

Finally, after all our hard work, it was time to let our hair down.  We were all invited to an afterparty at a nearby hotel with cheap (for Switzerland at least) drinks.  Even the Maestro attended, and those of us who hadn't yet had the chance queued up to get our "Simon selfie".

My Simon selfie, complete with awestruck onlooker.

It's always difficult after a project like this to say goodbye to so many lovely colleagues from around the world.  We've become very attached to each other over the past three weeks, bonding as an ensemble and as friends.  It's hard to believe that this is the end, that we'll never see each other again.  Which is why I always like to say "see you soon".  After all, the music world is so small, it's quite likely that I will.  And even if I won't, it's a comforting thought, isn't it?  Easier than thinking this is goodbye forever.

The choir has now scattered around the globe to their respective homes.  Only nine of us have stayed behind to do a week of masterclasses with Barbara Hannigan.  We miss our Coro ensemble, and the comeraderie which we shared as we tackled this crazy piece together.  A piece which once seemed so terrifying, and is now a fond memory for us all.  We may move on to new pieces, new challenges, but Berio's melodies will surely be haunting us for years to come.  

Lucerne Festival - Week 2

It's my second week in Lucerne, and – rainy weather aside – things are beginning to heat up.  The choir has now had five days of tutti rehearsals.  Which may sound like much, but actually felt like getting hit with a ton of bricks.  Although the rehearsals only lasted half the day, they were extremely intense and demanding.  What with forty different voice parts singing rhythmically challenging and not-so-tonal music, there was a lot going on.  It's hard to explain exactly how it felt to be in the middle of it all.  But I'll try anyway.

In the beginning, there was nothing for us to do but take the plunge.  So we just started singing - jumped right into the madness, and prayed to God we would come out safely on the other side.

AHHHHHH!!!!!!

Usually, in choral music, you can rely a bit on your neighbours if you get lost.  Drifted off a bit?  Not to worry.  The alto next door will set you straight.  But in Berio's Coro there is no such option.  Everyone is responsible for their own line.  If you're lost, you're lost, and there's nothing anyone can do to help you.  It's every man for himself.

So we all sat there, our faces screwed up with concentration, and desperately tried to hold everything together.  In a piece like this, simply making sure things don't fall apart can feel like a major accomplishment.  Ideally, you want to end up on the right note.  At the very least, you hope that you'll be at the right bar number.

I'm pretty sure we all look like this for most of the piece.

When you're singing this kind of music, you need some serious help getting your notes.  As I mentioned before, singers are used to reading a piano-vocal score and being able to see the full musical picture.  This is because most of us can't pick our notes out of thin air.  We need to hear our notes in our head before singing them, and for this we rely largely on relative pitch.  Normally you have a simple frame of reference for your note – perhaps it's a perfect fourth up from what the cello plays.  But in a piece like Coro, finding your note is not so easy.  There's so much going on – and most of it very dissonant – that finding your pitch can be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Enter your new best friend: the tuning fork.

I call him "Tuney" for short.

We've all been provided with tuning forks that play an A442.  Yes, I know.  Controversial.  Most of you are probably used to A440 (or 415 for the Baroquers out there).  But I promise, it's really not a big difference.  Unless you have super-duper-uber-perfectamundo pitch, you probably won't even hear the difference.  It might feel ever so slightly higher.  But then again, does it really feel higher, or is that only because you know it's higher?

Anyway, we've all become pretty attached to our tuning forks.  If you watch a rehearsal, you can see when we're approaching a difficult passage because we all have tuning forks glued to our ears.  I'm on extremely intimate terms with my tuning fork these days.  I'm considering having it surgically implanted into my ear, to save a lot of hassle.

Tuning forks can serve multiple purposes.  I often use mine to stir my coffee.  Not because I'm being eccentric or anything.  Only because we have no spoons.  Some people worry that the heat of the coffee might affect the pitch of the tuning fork, but so far I haven't noticed a difference.

Although perhaps my coffee tastes a bit sharp.

Many of my colleagues, of course, don't struggle so much with finding notes.  There is an extremely high standard of musicianship here.  I'm used to being considered a very good musician (for a singer, at least).  But it's all relative, isn't it?  Within the context of this group, my skills are probably average at best.  My pitch is passable and my rhythm is just shy of atrocious.  I'm continually humbled by everyone else's cleverness.

Some of the singers here are incredibly passionate about new music.  I'm no new music specialist myself – at most, I dabble.  But for these guys, new music is a lifestyle, a religion, a dedicated path.  It's inspiring to see people feel so strongly about something.

It also ups the ante in the geekery stakes.  I mean, I used to think I was a real music geek.  But after hearing people wax poetic about polyrhythms and spectral-ism (still not entirely sure what that is) – I think I might actually be pretty normal.

While the rehearsals require a lot of concentration and musicianship, they're also extremely demanding vocally.  It wasn't until our first run-through that I realised just how tiring the whole piece is.  It's almost a full hour of singing, and it uses every single inch of my voice.  I have to sing in every possible way, in every part of my range.  Chest voice, head voice, vibrato, no vibrato, high notes, low notes – you name it, I sing it.  It's a real test of technique and vocal endurance.  I'm not sure which part I love to hate more.  There's the bit where I have to sustain pianissimo notes right in the middle of my passaggio.  Or there's the bit where I have to sing staccato high A's on "ee".

We call that bit "the monkey chorus".

Between rehearsals, we've had time to explore Lucerne's beautiful landscape, whether from the streets, in a paddle boat, or on top of a hill.  On an unusually sunny free day, some people chose to wake up early and climb the infamous Pilatus.  I opted instead for a lie-in, and joined some friends for a less ambitious hike later in the day.  We didn't reach the top of anything, but we met some very lovely cows.

Our hiking selfie, or "helfie".
Yes, I am wearing a sweater on my head.

In our free time we've also been hanging out with our host families, familiarising ourselves with Swiss culture.  One thing we've all noticed is that the Swiss are extremely particular.  I mean, I thought the Germans could fuss over little details.  But the Swiss bring this to a whole new level!  You probably think you know how to boil an egg, open a window, or make a cup of coffee.  Well, let me tell you something.  You've been doing it all wrong.  And somewhere out there is an old Swiss lady who's just dying to set you straight.

They also have a rather odd sense of humour.  The other day I came home, took a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat on the sofa to watch some TV.  Perfectly normal behaviour, right?  When my hosts came home and saw me, they began laughing uncontrollably.  They've been making joking references to the incident ever since.  I'm still trying to figure out what was so hilarious.  Should I have poured the beer into a glass?  Was I not supposed to drink alone?  Or did I just happen to conform perfectly with some cartoon image they had of a stereotypical "American"?  I may never know.

I say this with affection of course.  Eccentricities aside, our hosts have given us a warm welcome, and I'm more than grateful for their hospitality.

I'll just say one more thing about Swiss culture: they take their card games very seriously.  In fact there's one game which they broadcast on TV, like a football match.  Except instead of a stadium of spectators, they have an audience sitting at wooden picnic tables with bottles of wine.  Every time someone does well they shout and blow horns and thump the tables.  I'm not even joking.  This is an actual thing.

The cards look like this, and apparently they're very exciting.

On Friday night the festival kicked off in earnest.  As members of the academy, we were offered discount tickets to the opening concert, a beautiful programme of Brahms.  We had been told to dress "elegantly" for the concerts – no jeans or flip flops please – so we all made a bit of an effort.  But nothing could have prepared us for the sparkling glamour that awaited us.  All the brightest stars of classical music and high Swiss society were there, gliding around the KKL in stiletto heels.  The dress code "elegant" had been a massive understatement.  Tuxes and evening gowns were the order of the day.  I couldn't help feeling a bit scruffy in my leggings and H&M dress.

The concert itself was fantastic.  After a week of intense rehearsals, it was such a pleasure to sit back and listen to some beautiful music.  Not that the Berio isn't beautiful.  But you see, I never really get the chance to sit back and appreciate the Berio.  I'm always too busy holding on for dear life and praying I won't miss my next entry.

We've finished the choir-only phase of rehearsals, and now the orchestra academy has arrived.  Yesterday we met them all at an official welcome event.  At the reception, between glasses of wine, we even caught glimpses of the man himself.  It's funny, you know.  He seems like such an ordinary man.  It's just that he happens to be Simon Rattle.

Anyway, I'll have to get over that whole star-struck thing, as we're rehearsing with him tonight.  The concert is on Saturday, which feels frighteningly close.  But judging from what we've accomplished in the first two weeks, I have high hopes for the third.

Lucerne Festival - Week 1

As I mentioned last week, I'm now in Switzerland for my next project.  And this project is quite a change from La Cenerentola.  In fact, it couldn't be more different from Rossini if it tried.

Over the next three weeks, I'll be participating in a special project at the Lucerne Festival, in conjunction with the Lucerne Orchestra Academy.  For the first time, this year the festival has arranged for a Choir Academy to work alongside the orchestra.  Forty-six young singers (including understudies) have come here from around the world to sing a piece by Luciano Berio, called Coro.

Lucerne.  It's even prettier than this in person.

Coro is a unique piece because it's written for orchestra and forty vocal soloists.  So there are ten different soprano parts, ten different alto parts, and so on.  Each singer is responsible for their own individual part, which is paired with a particular instrument in the orchestra.  The whole thing makes for an extremely thick and complicated musical texture.  Sometimes our individual voices come out virtuosic solo passages.  Other times we come together and sing in four- or eight-part harmony.  Then there are bits where we're all doing something different and it sounds completely mental.  As well as the different voices, Berio plays with various rhythms, languages, and vocal effects, so that the whole piece – almost an hour long – contains a universe.

I was extremely excited about the prospect of singing in this project.  A piece like this doesn't exactly get performed all the time.  It's a special event, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Still, when I first received my score in the mail, my reaction was nothing short of terror.  The music is extremely long and difficult.  Each of the thirty-one movements seems to have its own unique challenge, whether it's cross rhythms or metre changes or tones versus semitones.  It's like a crash-course in musicianship.  And on top of it all, I'm only provided with a small part of the puzzle.  You see, singers are used to reading a piano-vocal score, which gives us an overview of the full musical picture.  We aren't used to reading an individual part – essentially looking at the music through a keyhole – like orchestral musicians do.  It's a completely alien way for us to learn a piece.

"Was that a C# he just sang...?"

I'm usually very conscientious about preparing my music.  But I have to confess, with this piece I was so scared that I hid it away in a drawer for several weeks and tried to pretend it didn't exist.  Eventually though, my panic got the better of me.  I braced myself, took out the score, and began tackling it in small chunks.

We're now a week into rehearsals, and I still don't feel 100% confident with my notes.  Then again, I probably never will.  That's modern music for you.

When I first arrived in Lucerne, I had to check my pulse.  Surely I had died and gone to heaven?  This place is so beautiful it's almost obscene.  Crystal clear lakes swimming with swans, snow-topped mountains, fairytale towers and spires… it's actually ridiculous how beautiful everything is.  I've been here a week and I still haven't gotten over it.  Every time I turn a corner and see a new postcard-perfect landscape it's like, ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME HERE??  I mean, even when you pass by someone walking their puppy, it's not just any puppy.  It's THE MOST ADORABLE PUPPY YOU HAVE EVER SEEN.  Switzerland doesn't do anything by halves.

Sorry, buddy.  The Swiss puppies are cuter than you.

Even for a vegetarian this place is paradise.  When I was in Portugal, it was practically impossible to find anything to eat.  The Portuguese were not exactly familiar with the concept of vegetarianism.  In fact, if I so much as mentioned the word "vegetarian", they would in turns appear confused, disgusted, and mortally offended by the idea.

But in Switzerland, vegetarianism is in vogue!  My first day here I found a lovely buffet restaurant that's entirely meat-free.  And since then I've been delighted to discover the myriad choices of vegetarian foods at the local supermarkets.  At this rate, I may never want to go home.

Doesn't get much better than this.

Of course, there is a downside to living in a utopia like this.  It's gonna cost you.  Everything from a cup of coffee to a plate of pasta at a mid-range restaurant will cost at least twice what you're used to paying.  Switzerland may be easy on the eyes.  But it is NOT easy on the wallet.

Since arriving here, I've been repeatedly surprised by how different everything is.  You see, I had naïvely assumed that Switzerland would be pretty much the same deal as Germany.  They live right next door, right?  And they speak the same language?

Well, first of all, they do NOT speak the same language.  Anyone who tells you Swiss German is remotely related to German German is obviously not familiar with either language.  From what I can tell, they are about as similar to each other as Russian and Japanese.  I mean, I've lived in Cologne for a year now.  I'm pretty confident that I can speak German.  But when people open their mouths here, I can't decipher a single word.  I think I finally understand how my Brazilian friend felt when he moved to Glasgow.  "I thought I spoke English," he confided in me, a note of desperation in his voice, "but I have no idea what these people are saying!"

And there's other differences of course.  There's the money, which looks dangerously like Monopoly money (and should never EVER be treated as such).  There's the beer (I've replaced my usual Pils or Kölsch with something called an Eichhof).  Even the electricity is different.  I was shocked when I realised I would need to buy an adaptor for my laptop.

No pun intended.
Ok, pun intended.

But, like Germany, everything here has been organised down to a T.  And this is something a type-A control freak like myself can really appreciate.  On the first day, amongst other things I was given a detailed rehearsal schedule, a contact list, a bus timetable, a list of practice venues and local restaurants, and a city map.  I think I may have had a small orgasm.

We've spent our first week in "sectional" rehearsals, if you can call them that.  Since every alto has their own part, there are still quite a lot of different things going on.  As if that isn't difficult enough, there are discrepancies between the full score and our transcribed parts – understandably so, with such a complicated score.  Our first alto rehearsal was total chaos.  Since then we've spent a lot of time consulting among ourselves and with the conductor on who's actually singing which note when.  Now things are finally starting to sound somewhat decent.

Of course, now that we're starting tutti rehearsals we're going through the same process all over again.  As my colleague so charmingly put it, it's a bit of a hot mess.

One of the most difficult things about singing music like this is that you have to give up your vanity.  You can't always use that bel canto technique which you've trained so carefully all these years – smooth legato, balanced resonance, healthy vibrato.  Instead you're often asked to do special effects with your voice, like making a nasal sound or singing with no vibrato and a breathy tone.  This is a challenge technically, of course.  But it's also pretty hard on the old ego.  I don't want my solo to sound harsh and chesty – I want it to sound pretty!  What if the audience hears that sound and thinks that's my voice?  It's just plain embarrassing!

I swear to God, guys.  This is not my normal voice.

Once I put my ego aside though, I have to admit the effects sound pretty damn cool.  Berio was a clever guy.  He knew exactly what he was doing.

Our choir is a motley crew.  We're just as individual as our parts, and consist of a wide assortment of performers, teachers, composers, and conductors.  Some of us sing opera, while others won't touch it with a ten-foot pole.  Some specialise in contemporary music, while others are completely new to it.  Some sing exclusively in choirs, some sing exclusively as soloists, and some, like me, do both.  It's rare to have such a rich variety of voices and personalities in one group.  I hope it will bring a similar richness to this many-layered piece.

Throughout the past week, we've begun to see advertisements for the festival popping up everywhere.  Posters on the bus, flags hanging over the street, flyers at the train station, and so on.  This kind of thing still tickles me.  I always smile to myself and think "hey, that's me!"  The Lucerne Festival is a pretty well-known institution in the classical music world.  So within Lucerne itself, it must be pretty damn important.  When I see these ads I feel like I'm really part of something big.

This week the choir is coming together for tutti rehearsals, which I hope will transition from hot mess to hot stuff.  Next week we'll be joined by the orchestra and our conductor, Sir Simon Rattle, will take over.  We have a lot of work ahead of us before we reach the final performance.  But with this international collection of talent and dedication, I'm sure we'll achieve great things!

On listening to your body...

Just over two months ago, my back went on strike.  Completely gave out on me.  If I so much as tried to sit up, a sharp spasm of pain shot up and down my body, freezing me in place.  I couldn't stand.  I couldn't walk.  I was paralysed by pain.

It was a rather quiet picket line.

The warning signs had been there, of course.  This had not come out of nowhere.  Since the new year I had been suffering lower back pain on and off.  Sometimes it was tolerable, only a slight twinge here and there.  Other times it had me limping stiffly, wincing every time I stepped on my right side.  I stopped running and stopped wearing heels.  I consulted a doctor, and later an orthopedist.  The orthopedist prescribed painkillers, muscle relaxants, and physiotherapy.

The pills were easy enough to swallow, but the physiotherapy was hard to keep up.  I was travelling all the time for work and saw no need to slow down.  I only made appointments when I could, between gigs.  So my treatment ended up being completely inconsistent.  Always at a random time, and always with a different therapist.  The therapists gave me exercises, but I only did them occasionally, when I had time and remembered.  Most of the time I didn't bother.

I'm not sure what exactly I was thinking.  Maybe I expected the problem to go away on its own.  Maybe I thought I could reschedule its healing for a more convenient time.  Maybe I thought it would disappear with the help of a few magical pills.  In any case, I didn't make time for my body.  I simply didn't think it was important.

So the months went by and the pain continued, and I carried on travelling and singing as usual.  Until one day I flew to Sweden with a heavy backpack, and ended up immobilised on my boyfriend’s couch.

It's a funny thing, having a body.  Most of the time you don't really think about it.  As long as everything is working, you take it for granted.  It will always be there, carrying you from place to place, digesting your food for you, and taking whatever punishment you throw its way. 

My body and I have never had what you would call a healthy relationship.  As a young girl I always resented it for being bigger than other girls' bodies.  I called it bad names.  I told it I hated it.  I cried and complained about it.

Later, in my early twenties, I became bulimic.  During this time I committed horrific atrocities against my body.  I starved it.  I overexercised it.  I stuffed it full of junk food, poisoned it with laxatives, and forced it to throw up.  All of this my body suffered quietly, without complaint.

I am no longer bulimic, but I'm still very hard on my body.  I regularly put it through long journeys, alcohol-soaked weekends, sleepless nights, and stressful auditions.  I often feed it excessive amounts of fat, salt, and sugar.  Even when I’m doing something "good" or "healthy", like exercise, I don't do it to love or nurture my body.  I do it to punish it for last night's chocolate binge, or to control its weight and size.

Regretting another night with Ben and Jerry...

And I do all these things without thinking.  Because after all, I'm young.  I can get away with this behaviour.  My body can take it.  My body is invincible.

Until it isn't.

I suppose at a certain age all these things begin to catch up with you.  The wear and tear begins to show.  And suddenly you find yourself paying dearly for transgressions which used to go by unnoticed.

Back in Sweden, I spent four days lying on that couch.  It was a surreal feeling, suddenly losing the ability to move.  Getting up to go to the bathroom was a huge ordeal.  It would take several agonising minutes to sit up.  Then I would use my boyfriend's music stand as a walking stick as I hobbled across the room slower than an arthritic 90-year-old grandma.  The pain was horrific.  Even with the maximum dosage of painkillers and anti-inflammitants – I was taking 16 pills per day – it was excruciating to move.

My "stand-in" walking stick

Gradually, I began to rely less on my "walking stick" and limp without it for longer distances.  I began to walk again – still crookedly, and still with pain, but walking nonetheless.

And so began a long and arduous healing process.  From then on, I made my health a priority.  I visited doctors, orthopedists, chiropractors, and osteopaths.  Everyone had a different idea of what exactly was wrong and what I needed to get better.  It was difficult to weed through all the different opinions.  But I tried my best not to over-rely on popping pills, to listen to my body, and to figure out what was working best for me.  I dedicated time to my body every day.  Whether it was stretching, getting a massage, or simply resting when I needed it, I made sure I was taking care of myself.

I continued to work, which was a humbling experience.  Everyone noticed my limping and could tell how much pain I was in.  People were very sympathetic.  They meant well, but their concern often frustrated me.  I wanted to be strong and independent, not an object of pity.  Of course, by this point I was accustomed to my condition.  I had accepted that for the time being, this was the state my body was in.  But to everyone else – every new colleague and employer I encountered – it came as a fresh shock.  And I grew tired of hearing their shock, of thanking them for their "gute Besserung"s and accepting their opinions and advice on what I should do.

So. Many. Opinions.

There were times when I gave in to despair.  I cried about how unfair it all was.  Why did my body hate me so much?  What had I done wrong to deserve this?  When was I ever going to feel better?

Other times I let myself think I had found a miracle cure, a definitive diagnosis.  Now it was all over and everything would be fixed.

YESS!!!

Then a few weeks later things would take another turn for the worse and my frustration would return.  Whatever I did, it seemed my body would find a new pain or affliction to hold me back.

In my more lucid moments, I would think that my body was trying to tell me something.  But what?  Did I need to travel less?  Sleep more?  Eat better?  Cut back on coffee?

It took a while before I realised that my body's message could in fact be very simple.  Maybe my body just wanted me to notice it.  To acknowledge its presence, to thank it, and to treat it with some dignity and respect.

You see, that's the other funny thing about having a body.  You don’t really have your body, do you?  Your body is a part of you.  It's who you are.  And yet we insist on using this language of ownership.  As though our bodies are something separate.  A vessel, an unthinking object, a vehicle to transport our brains from point A to point B.

For as long as I can remember I've thought of my body as something completely remote from myself.  At the best of times I've tolerated its existence.  At the worst of times, I've berated it for being so fat, so ugly, so stupid and useless.  With all these aches and pains holding me back, the temptation to scream at my body has become bigger than ever.

But I don't want to keep screaming at my body.  I want to start a new dialogue, a dialogue of patience and understanding.  I want to connect with it, listen to it, learn to love and appreciate it.  Because my body is myself.  If I don't love my body, I don't love myself, and I am neglecting a huge part of what it is to be human.

I'm building a new relationship with my body, and it won't be built overnight.  It will take a long time to undo such a long history of abuse and resentment.  I need to accept that there are no miracle cures or overnight fixes.  Like any relationship, it needs time to develop.

This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It's been over two months now since my back gave out on me, and the healing process is far from over.  After an MRI and a diagnosis of a bulging disc, I've been through a long stint of physiotherapy (this time with much more intensive and regular treatment).  But despite all the work in physio, all these months of limping have left me with a knee problem which just won't go away.  I begin staging for an opera in less than a week, and I'm still not able to walk completely normally.  I've had to inform the director of my physical limitations, and – perhaps even more difficult – I've had to accept for myself that I'll be working with a less-than-perfect body onstage.  It's not ideal, but it's the way things are.  And no amount of railing against fate or cursing my body will change that.

The best I can do now is to keep loving my body.  Nurture it, cherish it, thank it for everything it does.  And trust that in time, with the proper love and care, it will find its own way to heal.