6.

‘This is your call, the executioner, and the executioner’s assistants’

The understudy

One advantage of joining an opera chorus in a repertory company is the possibility of understudying – or, better still, being cast in – a particular role. Understudying has a few different names, depending on what area of the industry you work in. In opera, it is usually called an ‘understudy’ or a ‘cover’, but in musical theatre the word ‘swing’ is also used. An understudy or cover is an actor, singer or dancer who learns the track of one or two performers (a ‘track’ incorporates all the characters a person plays, their path onstage, their choreography, what props they use, their entries and exits, and how they move from one scene to another backstage), allowing them to step up if a cast member falls ill. Some swings in musical theatre will learn five or more tracks in a show and may perform several of those tracks in a single performance. This takes a very special set of skills, which is why these performers have been referred to as the ‘human life insurance policy’ of a production.

But this is where opera and musical theatre are different. In opera, unless the cover happens to be in the cast themselves, they can rest assured that 99 per cent of the time, if the lead is onstage, they will have the night off. In musical theatre, it’s a different story. If the show’s on, they’re there every night, waiting. While the production is playing out onstage, you might find them in a rehearsal room listening to the show through the tannoy, rehearsing each track for every performer they are covering.

To be given one of these opportunities at Opera Australia, choristers need to go through open-stage auditions, which offers us the chance to sing, in a solo capacity, for the company’s management. I’ve taken up these opportunities a few times since joining the company – some have been successful, some less so, and some have been highly entertaining. For many singers, these auditions open doors. There are several solo artists who, after initially singing in the chorus, have been successful in becoming young artists with the company and eventually principal singers.

If you take on the responsibility of an understudy, you receive a payment for learning the role, rehearsing, covering and performing, which can certainly make a difference to your fortnightly pay packet. Roles in an opera are broken down into leading, featured, supporting, bit part A, and bit part B; the classifications for roles in every opera are published by the American Guild of Musical Artists. Over the years I’ve realised that it doesn’t matter how much music you sing – it’s all to do with how important your character is. Two roles I’ve performed (and understudied) in the past – Papagena in The Magic Flute and Valencienne in The Merry Widow – were both classified as ‘featured’, yet they couldn’t have been more different. Papagena consisted of two small scenes of dialogue and one duet, whereas when playing Valencienne, I spent more time on the stage than off it. And I ended up with the same amount of money. I’ve never been able to work that out.

When it came to understudying roles, I didn’t hang out for long in the bit-part section. One of my first was the leading female role, Betty Joy, in Brett Dean’s opera Bliss, for two performances at the Edinburgh Festival in 2010. Talk about hitting the ground running – or sprinting: I had to learn it and be off book before the performing company boarded a plane to Edinburgh a few months later. As I’ve mentioned, this opera is still hands down the hardest I have ever had to learn, both as a chorister and as an understudy. Thankfully, I had a fantastic group of coaches who were incredibly patient, not to mention determined to make sure every single note was correct. I lived and breathed that role every day for three months, and it nearly drove me loopy.

Another early understudy opportunity was the role of Lillas Pastia, an innkeeper in Carmen. So excited by this casting opportunity, mainly because I love the opera, I decided to splash out and purchase the full score myself, rather than using a copy from the Opera Australia library department (which would have meant handing it back at the end of the season). With my trusty highlighter in hand, I began scouring the pages of the score to see where my role started. Eventually, to my disappointment, and with the highlighter lid still firmly attached, I realised she didn’t sing a bloody note. Worse still, she had a few lines of dialogue – in French! God help me! I started my language coaching with a formidable French coach who, as delightful as she was, scared me a little. When I walked into my first session, she said to me, in her native-French-speaking English accent, ‘Katherine, I see you as a challenge.’ I replied, ‘Me too, Marie-Claire, me too.’ Then we laughed because we both knew she was right.

If you have been asked to understudy a role, it is a huge advantage to already be in the chorus of that opera because you’ll be attending rehearsals and stage calls in the theatre. But when you accept a role or cover in an opera in which the chorus is not required, it means a huge amount of extra work, especially if your chorus schedule is already at breaking point. But this is the commitment you take on, and I have received so much job satisfaction from it (even if it has bruised my ego at times!). Not for a second do I regret learning these roles, or the blood, sweat and tears involved. Some gems have come my way, roles that I have yearned to play onstage – just once! I’d have eaten my hat to have performed Despina in Così fan tutte, Oscar in Un ballo in maschera, Frasquita in Carmen or Zerlina in Don Giovanni for Opera Australia. But the singers I covered, bless them, never went off.

That is the life of an understudy: always in the wings, waiting. But I embrace each role as if it was my own, knowing that the day of the first production rehearsal could be the day I’m asked to step up.

***

It’s a privilege to be offered a role, and a privilege to be asked to understudy one; it confirms that management deems you and your skills to be at a high enough standard to take on the responsibility. As a principal artist, it is ideal if your understudy is prepared, knows the role and can jump in if you are feeling unwell. If the opposite occurs, this can cause a lot of people a great amount of stress, particularly the principal who is forced to perform the show even when they shouldn’t, which prolongs their recovery.

Whenever I’ve played a role, I try to be very open with my understudy, making sure they are aware of any changes that have occurred during the rehearsals they couldn’t attend. This helps them keep up to date with any blocking adjustments and, in turn, reassures me that they will be ready if required. But sometimes you’ll do everything in your power to stay well so they don’t have to go on, just in case they’re better than you!

I think being professional, collegial and friendly goes a long way for singers who find themselves connected through a role. I have understudied some amazing principals who have gone beyond the call of duty to make sure I am aware of any changes in blocking, intentions, reactions, entries, exits and anything else they feel is important. I am so grateful to them if I’m required to step up for a rehearsal, not to mention a performance. On the odd occasion, I have sensed a feeling of disdain from the principal, and I recall one soprano who asked that I not attend the rehearsals – a strange request, given that attending these calls is a huge component of the learning process – but obviously it said more about her than me! Of course, there are times when I just want to jump up and have a go, or wish I was playing the role and could participate in the creative process. Who wouldn’t?

For an understudy, performance days are always a waiting game. I feel like I’m in limbo, wondering if my phone is going to ring, and every time it does, I get that rush of adrenaline – or fear, depending on the role. I have been called upon to step up for a second performance and for a final performance, so you never really know when that phone call is going to come. One thing’s for certain: I’ve suffered through many an ‘understudy’s nightmare’, dreaming of being thrown onstage hugely underprepared and without warning. The singer will usually call the company when they start to feel unwell, and I’ll be put on standby; if I’m lucky, the singer will contact me directly to give me a heads-up, which is a huge advantage. This can be very exciting if it’s a role I want to perform onstage, and then bloody disappointing when the principal dramatically makes a full recovery. Good for them, of course, but I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been gutted when these opportunities have slipped through my fingers.

Of course, nerves play a huge part in this process. I have found – and my colleagues can attest to this – that sometimes having less notice is better, because there’s no time to stress and get worked up about it. Of course, this is only the case if you know in your heart of hearts that you can pull it off! In a recent performance of Carmen, the singer playing the role of Frasquita started vomiting after arriving at the theatre. With her understudy also unavailable due to an unexpected family commitment, a group of sopranos from the chorus, including me, stood outside the dressing room with several members of music staff. They were trying to work out who had covered or performed the role most recently and who could therefore sing side of stage, with another chorister walking the role onstage. There were a few perfect candidates, though I wasn’t one of them – years had passed since I had learned the role, and I wouldn’t have been able to get my tongue around the very fast French language in one scene to an expected standard. As it happened, the idea was aborted just before curtain up: the principal received an anti-nausea injection and seemed well enough to go on and do the show. But it proved, once again, how integral the chorus is to a production, and the skill base of the singers in this group.

At other times I have dreaded that call, wishing the day would rush forward to the usual cut-off time so I can breathe a sigh of relief. This was the case when I understudied the role of Betty Joy in Bliss sung by a very generous colleague, Merlyn Quaife. Learning the role is still one of my proudest achievements. Merlyn showered me with all the information I needed, constantly supporting me throughout the process. Even though I knew the role off by heart, performing it would possibly have been the most terrifying three hours of my career. Thankfully, Merlyn remained fit and healthy and spared me, my colleagues and the audience the train wreck that could have unfolded. On the last performance, before they called beginners (this is the announcement over the tannoy that calls us to stage, five minutes before curtain up), I ran over to Merlyn, giving her a massive hug, bursting with relief and profound gratitude that my responsibilities to the role were over.

The production of Bliss also gave the company the oppor­tunity to perform at the Edinburgh Festival, and never in my wildest dreams had I ever imagined performing there – I certainly had never had the chance when living in the UK. We performed two shows and walked away with the Bank of Scotland Herald Angel Award, which awards creative and groundbreaking work staged at the festival. To top it off, a colleague and I were asked to sing for invited guests and Opera Australia staff onboard the Royal Yacht Britannia. The icing on the cake!

Every time I’ve stepped up to perform a role as an understudy, I’ve been surrounded by the most incredible support. The cast has been ready to guide me, willing to adapt to any move I may make that is slightly different to what has been rehearsed by the principal. The stage management and backstage team have gone out of their way to make sure I have everything I need to get through the show: pre-empting my exit, standing side of stage holding a glass of water or a vocal score, taking my arm to guide me to my next entrance or quick-change area. If I have a moment to gather my thoughts, you can be guaranteed that they will have found a chair for me to sit on. They will have props at the ready, so I don’t have to find these myself … and the list goes on. This team is extraordinary. And last but by no means least, there are the dressers and ‘wiggies’ who are always exactly where they need to be with pieces of costume or hats, so I don’t have to worry about a thing. They all seem to know the perfect amount of conversation that needs to be had, too, and are always supportive when I exit the stage, giving little nods of encouragement.

There’s such a feeling of elation when I get to the end of a performance, realising the achievement is down to a great group of people who have all banded together to make it happen. These are the times I come offstage and feel like I’ve nailed it – it might not have been perfect, but I know I’ve done my best and executed something that, four hours before, had felt like a terrifying and monstrous hill to climb. And believe me, that is worth celebrating!

***

You never get to choose your moment to step up as an understudy; it chooses you. When it happens, the pressure you feel to get it right – vocally, emotionally, physically and theatrically – is immense. You might not get another chance. You want it to go well, hoping more work might come from it, and you want to prove that you’re worthy of being given the responsibility in the first place. But managing the rollercoaster of emotion, uncertainty and expectation is not for the fainthearted. You never know when that phone call will come. For a principal role, midday on the day of the show is usually the cut-off to be called in, but occasionally this can stretch to 4 p.m., and in extreme circumstances it can be much later. We have all had the ‘Okay, you’re on standby, we’ll let you know as soon as we can’ phone call, followed by the ‘Actually, she’s fine, you’re released’ call, then an hour or so later the ‘Oh, wait, she’s not feeling great, you’re back on standby’ call … and on it goes, until you finally find out if you’re stepping up or not. It can be unnerving as you try to plan your day. Do you sit at home and study the score, or do you risk heading outdoors, go shopping or catch up with friends?

During the Opera Australia winter season of Franz Lehár’s The Merry Widow in 2011, I was fortunate to cover the role of Valencienne. (The Hamilton Operatic Society had introduced me to Valencienne many years before, when I’d had the opportunity to learn and cover the role in early rehearsals.) We opened on a Thursday evening at the Sydney Opera House, and by Friday mid-morning I received the phone call putting me on standby for the Saturday matinee. Of course I wanted to do it. Are you kidding? I would be ready, come hell or high water. Valencienne has a lot of dialogue, and more choreography than is usual in opera (The Merry Widow could be described as more of an operetta or light opera). But the principal had very kindly allowed me to shadow her in production rehearsals, so, instead of sitting at the front of the room watching, I would be up the back walking through the choreography and stage movements in real time behind her, which I’d found much more useful than trying to write them down.

I received confirmation by lunchtime Friday. The company scheduled a rehearsal for me to work with the conductor, the late Andrew Greene, and the assistant director during the afternoon. As I walked into the room, Andrew said, ‘So, here we are. How do you feel about going on tomorrow? Do you think you can do it?’

‘Yep, I reckon I can,’ I told him.

He smiled, and with a gorgeously cheeky twinkle in his eye, said, ‘Good, because I know you can do it, so let’s get to work.’ I just knew he’d have my back every step of the way. What a beautiful man he was – caring, nurturing and so supportive of young singers.

We were unable to get through everything in that one rehearsal, so I went home and re-rehearsed as much as I could over and over again, including entrances and exits, before finally collapsing into bed and falling asleep. My lounge room has been converted to many stage setups over the years!

The help and support of some very special people enabled me to get through the show that day. I arrived at the theatre on the Saturday at 9 a.m., and my friend Deirdre Elliott, a full-time mezzo in the chorus, fellow Kiwi and all-round glorious woman, came into the Opera House at 9.30, three hours before her sign-on time, to help me rehearse all my dialogue – a testament to her kind heart and giving nature. As the morning progressed, several principal artists arrived earlier than scheduled for their own performances, and we went through anything I felt concerned about. I will be forever grateful to John Bolton Wood, who played Valencienne’s loving husband, the ambassador Baron Mirko Zeta; David Hobson playing Count Danilo Danilovitsch; Amelia Farrugia playing Hanna Glawari, the Merry Widow; and Henry Choo as Camille, Count de Rosillon, Valencienne’s secret lover. They were all so generous with their time, patient, caring and supportive beyond measure.

Remembering it now, the transition from the rehearsal room to the stage is a complete blur. In reality, I had been rushed into hair and makeup, back to the dressing room to get into costume, to microphone checks, and to the toilet about five times. Then, at the five-minute call – the cue for any company members who need to get into position before the curtain rises – I walked up the stairs, busting to go to the toilet yet again, with my dresser, Susan Cranfield, holding everything I needed while I held onto the train of my gown. As I finally stood onstage with a fan in my hand, John by my side and the full cast around me, I thought, ‘Fuck! Here goes nothing!’

Mentally, the only logical and calm way to get through a show like this is to break it up into individual scenes. John guided me around the stage with such care and ease, and Henry made sure I felt comfortable with everything as the show progressed. The assistant director and stage management team were always waiting in the wings, ready to chaperone me to the quick-change area, where the most amazing dressers, and hair and makeup teams, would work their magic before I found myself back onstage. During a scene in Act Two, I realised I had no idea what was supposed to happen once the chorus exited the stage. I knew that Amelia and I would be executing a dance routine in a few minutes, and if it hadn’t been for her immense generosity and care, and the fact that she literally choreographed me through the entire number with her eyes telling me in which direction to go, I would have made a complete fool of myself.

The curtain call felt like the cherry on top. I had never experienced such elation, complete exhaustion, support, applause and a sense of personal achievement in a single moment onstage ever before. Valencienne had always been a dream role for me, and to have had my first performance under these circumstances allowed me to believe in myself and my ability to perform under extreme pressure.

Singers are intensely critical of their own level of performance and, in turn, are usually their own worst enemies, but I can honestly say that when I finally sat alone in the dressing room, I looked at myself in the mirror and cried. My performance certainly hadn’t been perfect – in fact, I’m not even sure I know what a ‘perfect’ performance feels like – but I had every reason to enjoy my success. In that moment, I refused to dissect my performance, and had no reason to doubt what I had just achieved. This, I can tell you, does not happen very often for me. Fortunately, I received the phone call to step up a few more times, before being given three performances of my own at the end of the season – a dream come true in so many ways.

But irrespective of how many times you rehearse a scene, work on vocal sections in the score and speak through your dialogue, some things are just out of your control, and you can’t always rely on props and furniture to get it right either. My second performance of that season ended up being a complete prop disaster. The fan that Valencienne uses at the beginning of the opera disintegrated while I fanned myself onstage. Thankfully, I had a moment to exit the stage and get rid of the fan before re-entering the scene with John Longmuir, who played the role of Camille that night. We started the scene centrestage in front of two chairs. We were then required to each pick up a chair, gracefully position it closer to the wings on either side of the stage, then execute a few very simple steps to get back to the centre. My costume had the most beautiful train, and without realising it I had plonked the chair onto its edge, which meant that as the chair joined me in the dance, it started to return to its original central position. It took all my strength not to laugh as I tried to continue the duet. Luckily, John is such a solid performer, generous to a fault, and incredibly supportive. Whenever I had to step up, he consistently had my back, and I knew I could trust him completely. We’ve always had a lot of fun onstage together.

***

Of course I’m not the only chorister to have received the phone call that pulls us out of the chorus line and into the spotlight. Everyone’s understudy moment is unique. When a colleague recently got the call to step up and perform a principal role in Mozart’s Idomeneo, her father said something that encapsulates the life of an understudy: ‘The definition of luck: when preparation meets opportunity.’

Imagine being halfway through a performance as a chorister, then realising you’re going on for a principal role in La traviata. Picture the scene: you’re chilling out in your dressing room, having a laugh with your colleagues, then you think you hear over the tannoy that the principal artist you’re understudying is going home due to illness. But you’re halfway through the show!

When this happened to Leah Thomas, one of my fellow sopranos in the chorus, she didn’t really register the situation unfolding until a member of the wig department came up to her in the dressing room, saying, ‘Alright, lady, let’s get you out of that costume and into makeup. You’re on.’ Suddenly, she found herself being whisked out of her glamorous chorus gown and raced into the makeup room to be ‘dulled down’ before appearing as Violetta’s maid, Annina, in Act Three. Thankfully, her cover costume was already in the theatre, and before she knew it, she found herself onstage as a completely different character. In a situation like that, there’s no time to stress: you just do your job. What a champion! To top it off, her mum just happened to be working front of house that day, so she was able to rush into the auditorium to watch her daughter onstage. Her mum remarked later that she’d overheard a few ladies in the audience noting how different Annina had looked in the earlier scenes! I’ve seen this many times over the years: an opera may start with a tall, robust European principal artist who, magically throughout the course of the evening, is transformed into a short, slightly built singer of a different nationality.

A few years later, again in La traviata, another chorus colleague, bass Anthony Mackey, received the call to say he would be going on that evening, but this wasn’t your usual ‘stepping up’ kind of phone call. Being asked to perform the role you’re covering is one thing – being asked if you could also learn another role because both the principal artist and official cover are down with Covid is something else! Thankfully both characters do not appear onstage at the same time, so doubling up would be possible. After suffering cold sweats from the shock of the request, he said yes. Already a cover for the role of the Marquis d’Obigny, he now had to learn the role of Dottore Grenvil. This meant learning the notes, making sure he could sing it precisely, learn the Italian and the meaning, memorise it all off by heart and, as if that wasn’t enough, learn the staging of each scene in which the doctor appears. Thankfully, to everyone’s relief, he fitted perfectly into the costume, which ended up being a combination of his own chorus costume and the doctor’s. As a clever safety net, he wrote all the words on his hands, which were covered by gloves in every scene onstage. Then, when standing backstage before each entrance, he could whip the gloves off to check the lines for the next scene. Amazing! I happened to be singing the role of Annina in that performance, so we were backstage together, and his inked hands were a sight to behold. He executed every scene perfectly and thoroughly deserved his applause in the curtain call.

You might think La traviata is cursed because a remarkable story unfolded in the same winter season with another very talented member of the chorus, tenor Tomas Dalton. Being put on standby at 10 a.m. on the day of the show, he found out a few hours later that he would be stepping into the leading role of Alfredo on the opening night of the Sydney season. He knew he could do it. We had already performed La traviata in the Melbourne autumn season, so all the covers were well rehearsed in their roles, and the company had complete faith in his ability to deliver the goods for the Sydney premiere. That same evening, as he was debuting the role of Alfredo, the Russian soprano Irina Lungu, playing Violetta, celebrated her 200th performance in the role. Her experience, deep understanding of the relationship between the two leading characters and word-for-word knowledge of the entire score were huge comforts to Tomas. During the performance, she took a few moments onstage to reassure him, mouthing one or two words to him when required.

What a complete triumph! He didn’t put a foot wrong and felt overwhelmed by the appreciation he received from the audience and his colleagues in the curtain call. When the curtain fell, the female chorus ran to him, embracing him in a huge hug. He stood in the middle of us in tears, unable to comprehend what he had just achieved. Afterwards, Tomas said he could only remember three moments backstage during his performance – receiving a glass of water from a member of stage management after his first aria, hearing an encouraging comment from a chorister and, just before his final entrance, his heart still racing, he sat next to another principal who whispered, ‘It’s going really well. Just relax now and enjoy this last scene, despite the fact that she’s about to die.’ The support he felt from the entire company, both on and off the stage, was truly immense.

Another colleague shared his experience in a UK-based opera company, after receiving a heads-up by a principal artist a week out from a performance. The principal had secured a job interview – for a completely different career opportunity – at the same time as the show, and he considered the interview far more important than turning up onstage and fulfilling his contract. Fast-forward to the day of the show when my colleague received the call – expecting it all along, of course. When he turned up to rehearse with the conductor and assistant director, both of whom spent five minutes profusely apologising for the lack of preparation, they were amazed at how calm he seemed to be. Little did they know he had been studying an archival video in the week leading up to the performance, and as he proceeded to run through the role in the rehearsal room without missing a beat, they sat there stunned. It appeared as though they had some kind of genius standing before them! The performance ran like clockwork. The principal artist returned for the following show, conveying his appreciation to the guy who had saved his butt. He ended up getting his new job, and my colleague was offered several roles the following season.

Understudies must be quick learners, intelligent, musical, adaptive, and quick on their feet to read the scene. In most instances, you only get that one chance, but it’s never your performance: you’re there to keep the show running, for your colleagues and the audience, and to get to the end. If you’re lucky, you might get another chance. Since you’ve already dived right in, you know you can do it, so a second show allows you to put a sprinkling of your own personality and interpretation into the performance, making it your own. What a gift!

***

Along with the triumphs, I’ve also had a few experiences as an understudy that would be best forgotten, when I have prayed for the stage to swallow me up and remove me from the nightmare unfolding before my very eyes – and before the eyes of my colleagues and an audience. Sometimes it’s about how I feel on the day, my nerves getting the better of me, or not trusting in my own ability to do a good job. Whatever the reasons, they are not my proudest moments, but I have certainly learned a lot from them.

Standing in the wings when you’re about to go on, and realising that the words you are supposed to sing have suddenly disappeared from your memory bank, is terrifying. It can be difficult to find them when different music is blaring out from the stage just in front of you. You’re either going to walk out there and sing the right words, or you will deliver something so foreign that inside you’re screaming, ‘What the actual fuck was that!’ while hoping your face is telling the story it’s meant to. I’ve experienced both, and the latter is a scary place to find yourself. But despite the nerves and fear, it is exciting to step up. Even if you’ve had the advantage of rehearsing the role, being up on that stage, under lights, with an audience staring at you, is a different beast. But what an incredible beast it is. It’s what we live for. That adrenaline rush is addictive, and we all want our moment in the spotlight.

When performing any role, you can sing hundreds or thousands of individual notes. So why is it that I can spend hours afterwards – if not days – focusing on the notes that weren’t up to scratch, or the words I pronounced wrongly, rather than giving myself a pat on the back for all the others that I sang or pronounced well? Mistakes can be so disappointing when you’re given one chance to get up there and prove yourself. These may not be obvious mistakes to an audience; it’s more about pleasing yourself, the director, the conductor, other performers and anyone else watching the performance more acutely. So occasionally, I allow myself to wallow, just a bit, before I dig myself out of the trenches.

Even though I have notched up a good number of covers in the years I have been with Opera Australia, the buzz of excitement when I receive an offer to cover a role has never diminished. It still feels like an honour, no matter how big or small the role, and that glimmer of hope still sits at the forefront of my mind: that I might be able to step into the spotlight once again.