Subtext.

All those who know me are well aware of the fact that I am not particularly good at expressing my feelings. Or rather, I am not very good at expressing my feelings to those who are the subject of them. I’m terrified of rejection and being vulnerable, so when I really value someone, like, or love them, I don’t say anything. I shy away from confrontation, so never tell people when they have done something I think is wrong, annoying or unfair. Instead, I bottle all this up until it inevitably explodes out at some point, usually in a singing lesson, shocking my teachers into thinking I’m some kind of psycho who has breakdowns over being asked to alter the length of an appoggiatura.

I’m not touchy about my appoggiaturas, but if anyone criticises my trill, they had better be prepared to watch me go all kinds of crazy.

I’ve become so skilled at suppressing my feelings, I often I manage to hide them from myself. At least while I’m awake.

Going to sleep is one of the most entertaining parts of my day, because every night without fail I have ridiculously vivid, absurdly detailed dreams. Usually it’s just my brain processing the day that just happened in its own nutcase way. But every now and then my brain identifies some kind of deep-rooted emotional issue or situation going on that it feels I’m not addressing properly, and tries to bring it to my attention.

But of course, seeing as I can’t have a conversation with my brain without being completely off my rocker or in a surprisingly moving animated Disney film, my subconscious has to try and communicate through symbols. In many instances, it is not very original. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I dream that I am swimming in the ocean, but the waves are getting bigger and bigger, and the sand is being constantly eroded, creating a cliff that makes it impossible to get out of the water. Everyone else is having a lovely time at the beach, and I’m the only one that notices there’s a frigging tsunami headed our way.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been stressed out over the rapidly approaching deadline of my Master thesis, but trying to convince myself (and my supervisor) that everything is just fine and dandy, and that have ample time to do everything I should have been doing for the last eighteen months.

My brain isn’t buying any of that crap. In place of the standard “in over your head” dream, it has substituted one where I’m about to reach the summit of a huge mountain, but I spark an avalanche that over the course of many video game like levels, destroys not only me, but all of my friends and any other randoms unfortunate enough to be on my dream mountain.

Yes, my subconscious quite literally has the subtlety of an avalanche to the face.

Which makes me a bit dubious about my other consistently recurring dream. Whenever I am feeling doubtful about my musical path, or feeling trapped by a particular creative situation, I dream that I have to safely guide my family’s old cat through swamps and lakes filled with crocodiles that want to eat her. I’m pretty sure the cat represents my artistic identity. Which is a bit insulting, because it means my subconscious thinks my creative soul looks like this:

Floss

No wonder I sing so well.

Climbing the Green Mountain.

For the last few months, it seems I have spent every waking hour (when not on Netflix or in Spain) doing some kind of admin or organisation for a new project I’m involved in. A bunch of friends and I have set up an ensemble that will explore the music written for three female voices in Ferrara and Rome in the first half of 17th century. We’ve got a few concerts lined up in Belgium and Italy, along with a masterclass with the formidable Jordi Savall.

In addition to addressing the administrative details of dates, rehearsals, repertoire and travel arrangements, I’ve had to take a much more active role in the musical preparations for this project.

Usually for a concert, musicians perform from modern editions of scores, which some musicologist or editor of some big publishing house has kindly put into nice legible, clear notation. However, for this project, we’re performing some music that doesn’t exist in modern editions, and for a few pieces I’ve had to go about transcribing the weird mensural notation into something more readable. I’ve spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out whether a mark in the manuscript is a dot, a rest, or just a meaningless splodge of dirt. I’ve been confused by clefs I’ve never seen before (seriously, since when was the mezzo-soprano clef a thing?) and spent hours trying to find two missing beats in the alto line. Even I know it makes no sense to have a piece thirty one and a half bars long.

A sonic screwdriver would fix this.

But B, I hear you ask, why are you complaining? Surely this is not a difficult process for you? After all, haven’t you spent years studying music? Haven’t you obtained degrees that tested your aptitude for these things? Don’t you possess the skills necessary to do this job?

Well, no. No I don’t. Why? Because I’m a singer.

When I was studying in Australia, it was a given that the singers as a group uniformly sucked at Aural Skills. We’d go to class, we’d struggle through the chord progressions, the cadences, the sight-reading, the rhythm exercises, and my personal nemesis, melodic dictation. Then when it came to exams, we’d either all cry, fail, or go with the universally successful “But… I’m pretty?”

What do you mean, fail? Look at my hair!

However, when it came to dictation exams, no amount of tears or hair-flipping could redeem me. Yet as a zealous high-achiever, there was no way in hell I was going to let stupid Aural Skills drag down my GPA. So I negotiated an arrangement with the Piano Kids.

In addition to Aural Skills, all students at the Con had to pass two years of Music Theory courses. These were taught by composers who felt that our understanding of basic elements of musical composition would be enhanced by watching really old films with classic scores, listening to confusing allegories of rocks turning into chickens, and learning five different synonyms for “fuzzy” in order to better understand the harmonic language of Debussy.

Clearly, the Piano Kids had too much practice/procrastination to do to bother going to Theory classes. Clearly, I was too stubborn/lazy to practice melodic dictations. So it was agreed that I would go to Theory, sort the examinable content from the pretentious wank, and allow the Piano Kids to copy my answers in all the exams. In return, they would ensure optimal seating arrangements in Aural exams in order for me to copy their melodic dictations. We justified our duplicity by arguing that our actions were defended by Freedom of Information. We were merely exercising our right to access the information contained on the other student’s paper.

I had no real qualms about not addressing my deficiency in these academic musical skills. I thought, when would I ever need to note down some melody I heard or figure out a chord progression in under three listenings? I wasn’t planning a career in ethnomusicology or reproducing cheap, Spotify knock-off versions of songs not licensed for streaming services.

But recently, my laziness has come back to bite me in the behind. For this new project, we want to include an arrangement of a Monteverdi duet stolen from, copied off, ahem, inspired by a particular recording. Which has required me to not only learn how to use Sibelius to create a decent score for the additional instruments, but to spend a depressingly long time doing which is essentially two-part melodic dictations.

So there you have it kids. Don’t cheat in school. It makes stealing intellectual property later on in life so much more difficult.

Brain ache.

On a scale of one to what?

So, the other day I was discussing exam results with a friend, and we were remarking upon a common but confusing occurrence, whereby the jury says:

We feel you’ve made a lot of progress this year. We hear many different things happening in your music making now, and we feel that you have really developed yourself as a musician and performer. With this in mind, we have decided to award you exactly the same mark we gave you last year.

It can be somewhat disheartening to us poor, downtrodden music students to be given the same result year after year, especially when that is somehow supposed to reflect the improvement and development that we have (hopefully) achieved.

This is when my friend and I came to a very simple, but life-changing realisation.

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Calling it out.

As previously mentioned, the Early Music singers had their exams here a few weeks ago, yours truly included. After such a turbulent year, my end of year recital was always going to feel different from what I had come to expect from performing. There are many perspectives I could muse upon, including the discrepancy between how a performer and the audience experience the same performance.

But there’s one thing that keeps coming up and every time I think of it, it irks me. It’s not even the usual over-analysis of my own performance and disappointment from that note that was out of tune, or that dynamic effect that didn’t quite work. Rather, it’s one of the comments from the examination committee.

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…by which I mean…

In less than a week, the Early Music singers at the Royal Conservatory in The Hague head onstage and expose their musical and artistic souls for the judgement and criticism of a panel of examiners.

In the interests of full disclosure, I am writing this blog post instead of writing my program notes.

It is a well known fact that even if one has just sung a universally acclaimed solo recital in Carnegie Hall, the prospect of singing an exam in school will reduce you to a nervous, stressed-out mess. And not the hot kind of mess.

In the interests of full disclosure, I have not just sung a universally acclaimed solo recital at Carnegie Hall. Neither am I a hot mess.

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I quit sugar.

If I had to describe myself in three words or less, I’d go with “raging sugar addict”. It shames me to admit it, but I have been known to add five teaspoons of sugar to a cup of hot chocolate. Those desserts that most people outgrow by the age of eight because they become nauseating to eat? Yeah, I eat those for breakfast (when I bother to eat breakfast). When The Wasp asked me what to include in my next care package from home, I insisted on CSR brown sugar, because I had not found an acceptable version of brown sugar in the Netherlands. Yes, I’d tried out more than one type.

So facing the not-medically-confirmed possibility of having my legs amputated from diabetes at age 30, I decided drastic action was needed. I was going to face my kryptonite, wrestle my delectable demon, conquer the cake. I decided to quit sugar.

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This is the BBC home service.

Sorry for the radio silence. I’ve been far too busy procrastinating, learning music, attending concerts, going to bars and parties, learning to drink beer, locking myself out of my apartment and breaking my computer to maintain any form of consistent blogging.

Okay, I also got a fancy new smartphone and have spent far too much time playing Angry Birds. But hey. Pigs deserve to die.

I realise that I’ve spent a fairly lengthy amount of time chronicling the absurdity of my life here in The Hague, but have not really detailed what it was that prompted me to move halfway across the world and behave like a twit in the first place. So I am going to try and form some coherent explanation of my views on early music.

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