MY CARNEGIE HALL DEBUT
I haven't been able to shake the smile off my face since my Carnegie Hall debut. It was one of the most unlikely, exciting and terrifying moments of my life standing on that stage and facing that audience
The rehearsal (the day before, 2pm):
Alvin Ailey auditorium on 55th street
I was so nervous walking to my first rehearsal. I spent the entire morning going over my Italian text (all 24 lines of it). I couldn't make a fool out of myself in front of all of those first-class musicians. As I entered the building, I was behind a line of people who all seemed to look like they were showing up for a parent/teacher/student conference. "Who are they?" "Was I in the right place?" I was directed to walk down the stairwell and I realized I was following those same parent/teacher/student combos. It quickly became apparent that they were part of the rehearsal and knew exactly what they were doing. They were members of the chorus, and they all checked a seating chart, which I knew intuitively, couldn't have my name on it. A very young man was looking at the chart, and he asked me if I was in the chorus, "no, I'm the only actor in the concert" to which he responded, "cool, I'm the only high school-er." And then we tried to high-five, shake hands and do some hip-hop handshake simultaneously. Strange moment but beautiful nonetheless.
I needed to check in with someone who could guide me. I was spotted immediately, they saw a lost but deliriously excited woman, "you must be Antoinette!" I told the stage mgr. that I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to read music, to please help me, didn't know my entrance, didn't know my birth-date, blah, blah, blah. Michael, stage mgr. extraordinaire who is really an opera director with great bleached blonde hair, told me not to worry and that he would take care of me. He walked me down the steps of the auditorium. As I made my way down the steep staircase, I took in the chaos. The chorus was sitting in the audience, either greeting one another, bored, gossiping or going over music and the orchestra was onstage, reading the paper, drinking coffee, chewing gum, trying to figure out the music and the conductor was upstage of all of them. Then I lost Michael the s.m., he was nowhere to be found. So, in a panic, I took a seat in the front row of the audience. An older bearded man whose body was clearly bent over from life's disappointments, looked sternly over to me, and said "you can't sit there", I told him "oh, but I'm part of the concert", "well, this is the Bass section, and unless you're a Bass..." oops, where was Michael?! Then, finally, I spotted his bleached blonde hair and ran over to him. He was walking me to the four chairs behind the conductor. It dawned on me that I was in the same row with the famous opera singers. I was considered a soloist. I think that's when I started to feel pain across my chest. But I quickly forgot about my anxiety, as I was only inches away from the orchestra. It was their rehearsal that day more than the chorus or the singers or me for that matter. I was so overwhelmed by being so close to such beautiful sounds and also to see the musicians as real people. Looking to the conductor for guidance, rolling their eyes at him when he yelled. The conductor was clearly very passionate and demanding, as he should be, yes? He reminded me of characters I saw in movie musicals from the 60's. Very sharply dressed, clipped speech and black-rimmed glasses. I watched the first cellist and the first violinist (is that what they are called?) take copious notes; these women, one looking very much like one of my favorite grammar school teachers, the other, a button-nosed woman who resembled an overgrown child, truly led their sections like generals leading their troops. The different musical sections were trying to keep together during difficult passages. The cellos were behind, or the woodwinds weren't listening. The percussion section was way ahead. So much drama and politics. Oh, it was glorious. I loved it! I was brought to the verge of weeping many times during that rehearsal. Who knew woodwinds could make me cry.
There was a definite curiosity about the new chick in the house (that being me.) Musicians stared quizzically at me and smiled and I just beamed back at them. The only other person there with the same glow was the understudy, standing in for the concert's tenor suffering from a stomach virus that day. The famous baritone was more quiet and kept to himself as he only spoke Italian. He asked me if I was related to the Maestro who also shares the last name "LaVecchia" and I assured him that "I was the only one of my family to have ever performed with an orchestra" (as far as I knew). Then the diva arrived - the world-renowned soprano who is famous for her Verdi portrayals. Everyone clapped. She graciously waved back. Knowing essentially nothing about opera, I had only heard about her days before, so I was thankfully informed enough to be respectful but had never heard her sing. Once the chaos was brought to heel, the conductor took a moment to introduce the singers. Oh, but he didn't mention me. I took it in stride; after all, I wasn't a world-famous opera singer. Then the lovely first cellist leaned over her cello to me and asked so that everyone could her, "and who would you be?" It was truly an ALICE in WONDERLAND moment. I didn't know what to say, so I said "uh, Antoinette" and then the conductor noticed and apologized saying he was going to save introducing me for my cue which came one hour later. I blushed and giggled. Oh my God, what was I doing there?
The singers did not sing in full voice, but just marked their way through the music. The diva had her ipod to record the orchestra's music. I was anxious to hear her voice which I had heard was as endless as the ocean. The conductor yelled at the musicians, beamed at the singers, the diva kept sucking on licorice drops, the baritone watched everything with a curiosity that made me think he wanted to direct. And I sat there smiling, smiling, smiling. Then we took a 20-minute break. I still hadn't done my part. During the break, I ran into my Catechism teacher from my hometown. What was he doing there? Turns out he's been in this chorus for 15 years. All of a sudden, a man who had thoroughly intimidated me as a child had transformed into a colleague in an instant. A miracle! When we returned, I was brought up to my stand and it was over in a moment. The conductor only wanted me to say my first few lines that were performed with accompaniment and then he told me that I was done for the day. That was it?!! I had no rehearsal whatsoever!!! I left feeling more terrified than ever. I spent the entire evening memorizing the text, making sure I was prepared more than I needed to be, cause if I was that nervous in the Alvin Ailey auditorium, how would I be in Carnegie Hall.
THE NEXT DAY (the day of the concert):
Run-through at 10:30am
I was finally in Carnegie Hall. Found my dressing room and went immediately to the stage. If they weren't going to rehearse me, I was going to do it myself. So I stood on the lip of that stage, in front of the orchestra and repeated my text over and over. I was losing my voice, but I couldn't stop myself. Then the soundmen came over to figure out how to put my body mike on. They wanted me to wear the battery around my waist. "oh, no, no, no" I said, "my dress is quite form-fitting." Eyebrows raised. They seemed pleased to hear that. They then suggested that I wear it around my thigh, like a gun holster. I didn't trust that it would work, but I nodded and kept practicing my text. "Who puts it on?" I asked. Another smile from the soundmen. "Well, we would love to, but we think it best that you do it."
Then it was time for the run-through. All of the understudies performed during the run-through, except for the Baritone who was always around with his eagle eye. I decided to watch so that I could hear the music from the Hall. The diva's understudy, an opera diva in her own right, was remarkable. I was smitten with her sound and her emotional depth. And I got to hear her in Carnegie Hall, which is incomparable. I then watched a blind chorus member who was late, guided to stand next to the choir's place upstage. She just stood there facing the choir. She still had her coat on, a plastic bag filled with her meals for the day and her umbrella, but that didn't faze her, she began to sing her part with gusto. She had so much power in her face and voice. I looked at her colleagues and they all had their noses in their scores while they sang. The blind woman seemed so courageous to me at that moment and the others seemed handicapped next to her.
I spent some time in my dressing room, on the phone, had to make an appt. for my hair, my make-up. I had to look good for my debut. Forty-five minutes passed and it was finally my turn to rehearse. I walked onto the stage, wearing my jeans and cowboy boots and I performed my part. It was over before I knew it. That's it - I was free to go to prepare for the evening's performance.
Getting dressed:
After my email request for gowns, and the responses of so many generous people and a couple of "trying-on" sessions which didn't work out, I knew I had to find a dress that fit my body and one that I could afford so I headed to Macy's. Once there, I grabbed every floor-length red dress I could find and tried them on. It was so much fun. There was one that required help zipping up and when I came out of the dressing room to request a helping hand, a young woman stopped what she was doing and said "ooooh, that's so pretty," and I knew it was the perfect dress. Got the shoes on clearance. Had my hair done down the street, and make-up done for free at a make-up counter. Easy and effortless. And, last, but certainly not least, my beautiful friend, Irene Stockton, lent me her outrageously stunning Queen Elizabeth choker made of rhinestones and I was all set. Nails done the day before, everything was in order. Time to go! Kept the text running through my head ALL day.
Got dressed at the theater. Walked into my dressing room in jeans and sneaks and exited fully dressed in operatic splendor to small squeals of delight from the musicians hanging out before the concert. My dress was a hit so far. A violinist of the male persuasion said something to the effect of "you exceeded our expectations" - again referring to the dress. My "lady-in-waiting", Diane, flattered me from my temple to my toes. She was the fairy godmother of the Carnegie Hall dressing rooms, having worked there for years. The second the tenor saw me, he went bezerk. (I've heard Tenors are famous for this.) Didn't stop looking at my cleavage for our entire first conversation. He asked what I did in the concert, "I have a small part" I told him, and without breaking a sweat or taking his eyes off my chest, he replied, "it looks like you have a big part to me." (groan)
I paced for what seemed like an eternity until I heard my name over the intercom. It was my turn. I was beyond terror. I snapped the mike pack around my calf as it was a bit too conspicuous around my thigh and headed for the stage. The door was opened for me and I walked onto the stage. The only thought going through my head during that endless passage, "don't trip, don't trip, please don't trip", but I was distracted from my inner anxiety by the audience's gasp. My red dress was quite the showstopper it seemed. It turned out that every person on that stage chose to wear black for the evening's performance, except for me, the narrator, who chose a deep red.
I opened my mouth, sound came out, I sat down, the orchestra played, I stood up, made more sound and sat down again to listen to the rest of the music. It was a blur. I just told myself "tell the story," that was the most important thing and to tell it with respect- and to make sure that everyone in the audience understood what I was saying even though I was speaking in Italian. The orchestra played under me for the first passage and I felt as if I were floating on air. The second passage was just me alone and that's when I really saw how many people were in that house. Incredible. And then, like that, it was over. And I walked slowly offstage. The stagehands applauded my Italian, I asked if they wanted me to "take it off", there was a pause, "I mean the body mike", polite laughter, "yes, please."
I passed the diva waiting for her cue, she whispered, "Brava, Antonietta", my heart expanded, and my task was finished. Now all I had to do was to walk on for the curtain call.
I waited backstage. Introduced myself to the Bulgarian Baritone, a very charming man with a wide smile, who spoke of his worry that his Italian was suffering now that he lived in NYC. He got into an excited conversation with the Italian Baritone about Puccini, the difference between his first and last operas. And how Puccini couldn't compare to Verdi, "oh, no". And then the diva came offstage, popped some licorice drops and had a seat. Now the wait for our cue to bow.
I watched the diva and divos talk about the audience, the concert so far, etc. and then I saw the conductor come off, and immediately I was told to run out on stage. I walked as quickly as possible for the first bow and to my surprise and enormous delight; the audience screamed "Brava" over and over for me. I was dumbfounded and thrilled. My Cinderella moment was incredible.
I ran out to meet my parents and brothers and my sister-in-law who came in from CT and were going to leave during the intermission (always with my fairy godmother, Diane at my side.) Many audience members who were very flattering stopped me, but I just wanted to see my family. And when I did, it was deeply satisfying. The pride on their faces. They were so impressed. It moved me a great deal. We took many pictures and then they were gone. And I was left alone to watch the second act in a box above the stage. Made friends with my box-mates who were also Italian-American. They wished me luck.
Turandot was beautiful. I applauded the phenomenal talents of the brilliant orchestra, the genius conductor, the glorious singers and myself. It was a good day.
I stepped into the elevator to get to the dressing rooms, the diva entered, I whispered, "bravissima" to her, she nodded and we silently went up to the 3rd floor.
I pinched myself.
It was difficult to take off the red dress and the choker, but the night was over and after receiving so many compliments throughout the evening, I had my fill and I had to finally go home to my humble Upper East Side studio apartment. I grabbed my flowers (from the chorale group and my lovely friend, Domenica, who came in from Los Angeles) and my bags and headed out. When I said good-bye to my "lady-in-waiting", Diane, I gave her one of my bouquets for making my evening so magical. She was thrilled and promised to keep my dressing room warm for my return to Carnegie Hall.
I walked out of the stage door with my flowers and bags. An old man with a cane, surrounded by his family, called to me, "hey paisan!" He asked me where I was from in Italy. He told me my Italian was "perfetto." I decided to walk cross-town to the furthest subway. I ran into many who had seen the concert, recognized me and applauded, "great Italian and fantastic dress!" A man, who noticed all of my roses, screamed to me from across the street, "is it your birthday?” "No, I replied, I just had my Carnegie Hall debut". He laughed and I headed for the subway.
What an adventure.
And there you have it - my Carnegie debut.
Unforgettable.
posted by Antoinette at 10:43 AM
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