Now that all sane opera companies have moved inside out of the reach of the elements, it's time to look back on a summer of opera that saw the score firmly as Weather:1, High Art: 0.
Of course, any singer worth their salt knows far better than to trust British weather forecasters when packing for an outside gig anytime between May and September. It's all well and good for them to predict a lovely warm day in their cosy studios at 9am. Performers all know full well that by 9pm the dew is falling, the wind is wicked and we're cold, damp and with three arias to go before a chance to get a warm cup of tea. So we come prepared, don't we?
First, pack the sun cream, sleeveless top and sunshades for the afternoon orchestral rehearsal, plus at least two litres of Welsh designer mineral water (Evian is so passé, darlings). Next, empty the contents of your supermarket delicatessen counter into a cooler bag, because you'll never be able to buy grub in the country at five-thirty AND be back by the half. Also add, of course, a flask of hot water for tea, and then another flask so you can sustain the male members of the cast, who always forget to bring anything apart from themselves and their egos.
Finally, pack those sexy thick tights, discreet vest and oh-so-clever chemical hand warmers, since the costume designer is from Italy and has forgotten that you can still get frostbite in July here. Top up with two fleeces and an anorak, an umbrella, and you're off, only to discover when you get to the venue that the artists' car park is a mile hike from the stage and you can't carry all that lot plus your music. A tenor swans past you holding a bottle of Evian and a score. You know, from last week, he'll be the first to ask for some tea…
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Each summer brings its own special challenges; this one has been the Summer of Wind (no sniggering at the back, please). On stage, I have been more windswept than Wuthering Heights, and it doesn't help vocal projection one bit. Perfectly modulated notes that rang across lake and lawn in rehearsal get blown to the far corners by a nasty side wind. My dress blows across the cellos' strings, so I have to clutch it like a modest Marilyn Munroe over a grating. Rather than the discreet head microphones I prefer, one venue gives me a boom mic, as worn by Madonna. Now I never realised that they sit on your cheekbone, so every high note waggles the mic up and down like a diving duck. What's more, I bet Madge didn't have problems with a nasty side wind that made you sound like a telephone heavy breather every time you faced east. Or took a decent breath, come to that.
Then there is rising damp. That nice, dry changing tent, which was a furnace during the daytime sun, turns into a Turkish wet room at night. Your day clothes, carefully draped across a plastic chair (if you're lucky), soak up the moisture faster than a sponge in a puddle. After a hard night's singing, you peel out of your costume, try to change on damp grass without getting wet feet, only to drive two hours home in a damp fleece and soggy jeans. I've even had my court shoes growing mould on the leather bottoms where I forgot to air them after returning home!
Now, that assumes that it didn't actually rain during the show. Outdoor orchestral stages are fine so long as the rain doesn't want to come straight at you, which of course it always does. As the violins retreat as far back as possible, the singers become their weather break. Suddenly you're looking at 4000 umbrellas where moments before there had been an audience, and trying to sing a sultry Carmen with Niagara Falls dancing on the sound shell.
Why on earth do we do it? Well, we do it for the events where it all goes to plan. Performances in gorgeous landscapes where the sun shines until 9pm, the audience drink far too much, and the heady smell of roses fill the night air. The sound of heavenly human voices drifting on a still summer evening, accompanied by divine music, and the sight of happy punters crying their eyes out as another soprano bites the dust. It's all been worthwhile…
Kirsty Young
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