04 Do You Get Paid For That?!

Wednesday-ish (towards GMT- 3 flying LHR to Buenos Aires)

Finally, a British Airways direct flight where, joy of joys, you can get an excellent cup of builders’ tea. 

It’s halfway through the 14-hour long-haul to Buenos Aires, the lights are off, and my fellow cattle chums are attempting to sleep (bolt upright in economy). Never a possibility for me, unfortunately – apparently 2 mini bottles of red and a sleeping pill work for some; a non-active mind works for others; even the sotto voce roar of the engines and mild turbulence can send many of my fellow entertainers swiftly into the land of nod, but nothing, absolutely nothing will enable me to sleep in an economy seat. 

So, rather than sitting there, obsessing over my neurotic mind and inherently tense demeanour, I accept my fate and nip to the back of the craft where the cabin staff are reading the Daily Mail and mags of Celebrities Without Make-Up. I ask for a cup of tea, please. 

They have perfectly-coiffed hair, tidy outfits and full make up, whilst I am in me dodgy leggings, slippers and ‘bankrobber’ hoodie, but none of that matters up here at 35,000 feet and we have a natter about our collective points of reference: Posh Spice’s spring/summer fashion collection, Albert Square and the waning popularity of the X Factor. 

I love these moments of total freedom. These random, loose, fleeting connections you make with your fellow beings when humdrum life is suspended and we all hover between the reality we’ve left behind and the indeterminate one to come. Up here there is none of the judgement or insecurity that penetrates the competitive showbiz world down below – we’re just a bunch of humans stuck in a cabin together, surrendering our control to the chaps and chapesses in the cockpit, and believing wholeheartedly in the science of aerodynamics. And, if you’re lucky enough to fly BA, you’ll also get a well-brewed cup of tea.

I head back to my activity centre in 56D, another piping hot cuppa in hand, and carry on with word-learning.  Those less-than-satisfied Spaniards from the previous contract have got under my skin and so finally, after many requests over the years, I’m putting an Andrew Lloyd Webber ditty into my show. 

There was a time when vocalists were asked not to perform ALW, in particular anything from Phantom, as some cruise line, I forget which, was being sued due to copyright issues.  Either cruise lines are turning a blind eye nowadays or the litigation has been sorted, because now he’s everywhere!  Cats, Phantom, Aspects, you can’t so much as say ‘Napkin Folding Demonstration in the Atrium’ without hearing ‘Memory’ or ‘Music of the Night’ or ‘Love Changes Everything’.

And why not? ALW is sure-fire ovation territory for any musician, but in particular, for a vocalist.  He’s the man who has at his fingertips the ability to create an immediately catchy tune, possibly with links to the divine masters Mendelssohn and Puccini, and get people singing along, tapping their feet, going wild in the aisles!  Clever. Brilliant. Genius. A godsend for us vocalists.  And out here, vocalist I am.

Vocalist.  That’s my label.  My non-negotiable category.  If I were in a German opera house, my soprano voice alone would be split into 7 categories: Soubrette Soprano (young, light, bright), Lyric Coloratura Soprano (high, bright, flexible), Dramatic Coloratura Soprano (high, dark, flexible), Lyric Soprano (warm, legato, full), Character Soprano (bright, metallic, theatrical), Spinto Soprano (powerful, young, full), Dramatic Soprano (powerful, dark, rich).  These are the Fachs.  So to speak.  Fach.  Literally, ‘subject’, in German.  What’s your Fach? People will ask you.  Obviously, a question only for Germans, German speakers or opera people.  Otherwise, What’s your Fach? is considered abuse.  

So, to describe my own personal Fach, or voice-type, correctly, I’d have to say Soubrette with a touch of Coloratura but moving down to the pure Lyric as the voice becomes more settled and anchored into the perimenopausal, slightly more mature body.  Added to this fine division of the voice types, one’s stagecraft is also categorised into singer/actor, or actor/singer, or just a singer or… so complicated… but none of this concerns me nowadays.  Out here at sea, generic ‘Vocalist’ I am.  In exactly the same category as the Elton John Tribute bloke and the Country and Western geezer.   We’re all fighting for the same work.

I take another sip of the tea and balance the plastic cup on the little tray in front of me which is already failing quite spectacularly to host a laptop, pen and notepad, and I plough on with ALW, trying to commit to memory the song ‘Think of Me’ from Phantom.  I’m starting to call it ‘the needy chick song’ as the lead, Christine, reminds me of a former me, before I’d been introduced to the ‘Rules of Dating’ (never call a man, let him do the chasing and always appear busy and nonchalant rather than keen and needy). But Christine just puts herself right out there in the love circle, big time: ‘think of me, please say you’ll think of me, whatever else you choose to do…’  Me, me, me!!!  

I start writing the words down long-hand in my A4 notebook and every time I make a mistake, I go back to the beginning and start again. I repeat this process until I’m able to write the whole song without stopping. Sounds a bit laborious but someone once told me, way back when I was learning languages, that handwriting’s combination of motor skills – touch sensation and visual perception – reinforces the natural learning process, more so than pressing buttons on a keyboard, which apparently activates fewer areas of the brain.  Could be claptrap, but it works for me, so where word-learning is concerned I’ve always gone down the old-fashioned route and have taken pen to paper. This passes the time nicely and with no distractions up here, apart from Mr Snorer in 56E, I’m able to be super productive.

By the time I’ve sussed the lyrics, I look at the melody. Very pleasant. Lots of vocal leaps (open up the back like the automatic doors at Waitrose), beautiful musical line (think painting horizontal rather than vertical shapes), a key change for dramatic effect, a crescendo up to a big note (will need a subtle hand gesture for that) and oh my – a cadenza! Thank you, Lord Lloyd W!  A cadenza!  Every performer’s dream! A cadenza (‘a vocal flourish improvised by a performer to elaborate a cadence’) the purpose of which is for the performer to ‘shine all alone’ or, in cruise ship entertainer lingo, a chance to show off, impress and be asked back! Let’s be crude: the cadenza is the bank manager bit!

I try humming the various musical possibilities for this bit of improvisation but considering each idea I have sends the voice up to a top E, I decide to leave it for when I’m on the ship and can play around with ideas backstage in the dressing room on a port day when the theatre is empty. Humming top notes on an aeroplane is not such a good idea…

 …although things are now starting to perk up here. The kid behind has woken up and is back to prodding my seat; the enormous bloke in front is starting to wriggle, sending my tray into spasms, and Mr Snorer looks remarkably like he is about to launch into one of my pet hates: general chitchat.

I shift around in my seat and occupy myself with getting ready for landing: slippers off, sandals on; deodorant anywhere possible; and whilst I’m rubbing toothpaste round my mouth with a finger, 56E chooses this moment to start the conversation:

‘What are you going to be doing in Buenos Aires?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I’m joining a cruise ship.’

Pause. I get back to the toothpaste.

‘Alone?’ he continues.

‘Erm. Yes.’

Pause.

‘Are you working on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you do?’

(At this point I wish I had the nerve to use the excellent line of a trumpeter pal of mine – ‘I paint the funnel’ – but I don’t have the confidence to carry that one off today. He looks like he wants this conversation to develop so I put the mini toiletries bag back into the rucksack and engage in dialogue.)

‘I’m a singer,’ I reply.

‘Oh. What do you sing?’

‘I have a show of highlights from the world of Opera and Broadway!’

‘Oh, right.’ 

He doesn’t seem that impressed. Rather confused, maybe? His brow is starting to furrow, and he opens his mouth to speak. And I’m waiting for it. I’m waiting, hoping that I’m wrong, and that he starts to talk about the links between ALW’s ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him’ and the second movement of Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. But no, here it is… 

‘Do you get paid for that?’

(Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh!!!)

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have to pay for your flight?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have to sing every night?’

‘No. Once a week, generally.’

‘They fly you all the way from London to Buenos Aires to sing one show?’

‘Erm. Yes. They do.’

Another pause whilst he digests this too. And by this point I know he’s not going to disappoint. He’s going for the full put-down. 

‘Wait!’ he says, full-blown furrowed face by now, ‘should I have heard of you?’

And in the absence of Wi-Fi and YouTube and, by now, any desire to prove that some people think I’m ok at what I do, I simply say, ‘No’, and we leave it at that.

The plane lands in Buenos Aires and I breathe in the new time zone, fully prepared to deliver a spectacular show as a well-paid nobody who has a blooming good cadenza to work on the minute she gets to that lovely dressing room.