A performer's life is a rich one, filled with memories. My memory is longer than that of the average voice teacher in New York today, and I consider that to be an asset.
Time changes many things, but life as a performer remains, at its core, one of constant growth. Wax disks have given way to computers. Telephones seem to have fallen to texts and e-mails. Computers can now correct the mistakes of sloppy singers. On the stage, however, and live in the studio, life has remained the same. Not just talent, but hard work and determination are required, as always, for the performer to flourish.
On this page, I share some of my favorite stories of The Life. I hope you enjoy hearing them as much as I enjoyed living them.
Slipping up
My first musical theatre summer stock season in Saratoga Springs (by which I signed my first Equity contract!), I had my share of a rookie performer's on-stage mishaps!
The first one happened during our opening night performance of the season's first show - "Pajama Game" in which I was playing the role of "Mabel" (the boss’s secretary). It was my first time doing that show and that type of role, but it really helped develop my comic timing and tap dancing skills.
Everything was flowing very smoothly until my big scene arrived in which my character sings her big duet with the featured character man of the cast - a duet which includes a tap dance routine with "Hinesy," right after we've sung the first half of the number. It really was a soft-shoe routine, and within the first eight measures of the dance, I suddenly felt the elastic waistband of my petticoat snap, and realized the half-slip was gradually inching its way down my body!
As any performer will imagine, I experienced complete terror! I had to start singing at that point also, so there was no way to get off-stage or give my partner any clue of what was happening. As raw a rookie as I was, I still quickly realized I could dance my way in back of the desk behind me, wiggle out of the slip, and return out front of the desk. I prayed fervently that it would work!
I waited for a two measure rest in the singing line, and pulled away from him, which, to his horror, meant changing all the choreography. I then executed a quick turn to the back of the desk and stood for a moment while the slip dropped to my ankles. I then adroitly stepped out of it, and with another couple of steps got back to his side to finish the number. Success!
As awkward as I felt, the audience was none the wiser, and it got enthusiastic applause when we finished the scene. But, boy, was my scene partner furious! He laid into me in the wings about the extra moves I had executed. Luckily, the stage hand saved my humiliation by walking up to "Hinesy" and showing him the slip, which he had rescued from the stage during the subsequent behind-the-curtain scene change! As a result, instead of any more anger being directed towards me by my partner or our director and choreographer, I got only pats on the back from the whole cast at the cast party later that night.
These are the kinds of seeming "disasters" that happen to every performer in the business, and without them, we would never learn a great deal of our craft. The show must go on!
Becoming "One-Take Joyce"
Back in the day, making a recording was high-stakes work. There were no digital files. There was no editing software. There was no auto-correction for sloppy singing. There was just a singer and a wax disk.
I used to do demo recordings for neophyte songwriters. In fact, I really started my singing career in New York that way and did this kind of work for about four years. Because the songwriters were all very short on money, of course, I had to keep my rates low, and in those days (before tape recording had been discovered) you recorded directly on a vinyl or wax disk. This meant any mistake would require starting a whole new disk all over again, and that meant more costs for the composer.
My dad, Billy Kitts, did all the piano accompaniment on my jobs. Wanting to be as precise as possible, He and I rehearsed the songs so well that when we got to the studio, we were lyric and note perfect. As a result, the songwriters began to find that each recording was done in one take. So it was that I got the nickname "One take Joyce".
We would do as many was 10-12 in one session! Can you imagine that nowadays? We were pretty wiped out when we'd get through, as it was quite stressful, but I ended up getting much more work than any of the other demo singers working at that time.
Practice really does make perfect.
Above and Beyond
It was at the start of my third year at the New York City opera, when I was still contracted to work as an Associate Chorister (i.e. working only in operas requiring an ensemble of 80 to 100 singers but, at that time, the company did more than half of each season of large ensemble productions) that I signed in for rehearsal a bit earlier than usual on a Monday morning. As I settled down in my char, the Assistant Chorus Master came over and told me that Joe, the head Chorus Master, wanted to see me in his office right away. I froze, thinking "Oh God! What have I done wrong!" (this is another thought pattern that one should never entertain). But, when I arrived at Joe’s office, I was greeted by a broadly-smiling Joe, as he launched directly into his purpose in seeing me: One of the regular ensemble members (weekly salaried singers who performed in every opera requiring a chorus) had suddenly been summoned to a family crisis at her midwest home and had been forced to drop out of the remainder of the opera season - would I be interested in replacing her immediately? This meant signing a new contract for the entire season, learning four more operas (but, of course, continuing to work on the four I was already contracted for). However, it also meant a considerable income increase. He needed to know my decision at that moment, since we were only two-and-a-half weeks away from opening night. It was definitely a step up for me, financially and career-wise. Naturally, I said "Yes." He assured me that he would make every effort to see that I received private coaching in learning the additional operas, so I went out of that office with the scores of those operas in my arms.
The next morning, I appeared at my voice teacher's studio with the scores and said "help!" She could not have been happier with me, saying I had made the right decision. Sequentially, the first of the operas was La Boheme, one featuring extremely tricky chorus music. Joe had outlined the lines and parts I would have to learn. In Act III, he said I would have some solo lines to sing, since the gal I replaced had been doing one of the three milk maids at the top of the act. Great news, really - my first solo singing at New York City Opera. He said I only had to learn Milk Maid #2. Fine, only four lines - a breeze!
However, when my teacher, Alice, began working this music with me, she said "You're going to learn all eight lines - it'll make you more secure - they're all dovetailed and have to flow together smoothly, since there’s little accompaniment at times." I was not very happy with this decision, feeling the less music I had to learn, the better, right now! But I humored her and went along with it. Those two weeks flew by and a the second performance of the season was Boheme. Of course, I was a very nervous girl that night. We had only had three staging rehearsals for it, as it was an old production held over for many season, meaning the rest of the chorus had done it many times. Amazingly, I got through Act II with a lot of help from my colleagues and only a couple of "clinkers"...and then came my solo debut - small, but important!
Act III was beautifully depicted in this production with bleak, winter, early-morning lighting and snow falling. Oddly enough, I felt confident. The other two sopranos, Milk Maids #1 and #3, were very seasoned and experienced, having done the opera many times. My entrance cue arrived and out we came - four measures before the vocal cue - and Milk Maid #1 started coughing heavily and actually choking two beats before her cue! I knew she couldn't sing so, without missing a beat, I sang her line and my own. Then, since she had already left the stage, I continued to sing both her lines and mine for the remainder of the scene. I knew them because Alice had insisted I learn them. As I was making my exit, I glanced down at the conductor and saw him look directly at me, smiling from ear to ear.
In the wings, I stopped dead in my tracks and thought, "What did I just do?" Several colleagues patted me on the back and said, "Good job!" Later, in the dressing room, Milk Maid #1 came over and embraced me. She couldn't thank me enough.
It dawned on me that day how right my teacher had been in making me learn the whole scene and not just the lines assigned to me. This seemingly small accomplishment proved to be a valuable stepping stone to the further advancement of my New York City Opera career. The lesson I learned was to always follow my teacher's guidance, even when it seems stupid!