Fucking up in style.

There was a time when I would go to Diaryland first after email. Now I find it’s often the last on my list. How did I get involved in so many online communities? I think the most insidious one is Faceb00k, that site where everbody knows your name; no, I mean they really know your name. My students leave me messages, fellow choir members invite me to events, people write on my “wall”, I am poked and poke in return. It’s a great idea, but it’s so time consuming! One of my friends calls it a “stalker’s paradise”. Could be.

My two BU students performed their final juries yesterday evening, both doing better than I had hoped or dreamed. My soprano, whom I had been handling with kid gloves for quite a while because I just wasn’t sure in what way to approach the business of actually using technique when one sings, sang really well. Sure, she was nervous, her breath support suffered for it, but she was at least in tune most of the time, did some very nice things musically, and gave me reason to believe that there is a vocal future for her. However, when we got out of the auditorium and I gave her her congratulatory hug, she practically clung to me and was almost in tears, she was convinced she had blown it so badly. Poor dear.

My baritone, on the other hand, had been fortifying himself with watered-down Napoleon brandy (a fact of which I was apprised afterwards) and proceeded to discharge his duties with swashbuckling bravado. Even his Handel, that little ditty from Messiah wherein the people walkèd in darkness, went well, though he had a few false entries. He has a problem counting. His Caccini was good, as was his Gershwin. I felt truly vindicated as a singing teacher. His reaction when I gave him his hug was totally different from his colleague’s. He said, “Meh, I fucked up in places, but at least I fucked up in style!”

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