Treks in the City

Two weekends ago, I traveled to New York City for an audition. This, in itself, is nothing new. September marked the beginning of "audition season,"and I have been up several times already. But there was something different about this particular trek. I planned ahead for an extended stay, 5 days, in order to get several things accomplished.

On one of the days, I had a coaching on a new aria (Una voce poco fa from The Barber of Seville) with a distinguished opera professional, which went rather well, aside from the fact that I was battling a seasonal cold. (Apparently, other people were, too, because a DVD shoot that was planned got cancelled at the last minute!)

The audition for Natchez Festival of Music was a success... in my book. Of course, I won't hear back from them regarding casting for at least a few weeks, if not a month or two. Measuring the success of an audition or performance is more about how I feel they perceived me and whether or not I accomplished my goal for that day than it is about actually getting the job. For this audition, I wanted to feel relaxed and confident going in, and be in control of my breathing, which is the first thing that goes when nerves take hold!

But what about when other things take hold that you can't control?

My schedule for this particular weekend included a restaurant, shall I say, appearance. A local actor/pianist/singer invited me to collaborate with him on a night he was playing in this Italian restaurant in the Theater District. I took the opportunity to, as he suggested, sing some "stuff" other than opera. I brought the best of my musical theater songs with me, along with some more jazzy tunes.

The restaurant was across the street from the theater showing Chicago. When I arrived at 5:30pm, the pre-theater crowd was tucking in for their dinner. The piano was situated near the hostess station at the end of the wine bar. As I waited for my turn to sing, I quickly realized how NOT ideal this was for a performance of any kind. We were so far away from the diners, I doubt most of them knew we were there.

The owner and his family, including a young, noisy toddler, were running around between the entrance and the head table, tracing a path right through the piano/singer area. In fact, there wasn't even really a place for me to stand! I waited on deck at this small table (okay, they're all small tables in New York) against the wall, and stood up to sing right by the pianist, next to the servers' entrance to the bar, totally in the way. As if all these distractions weren't enough, one Mr. Big from Sex in the City walks right through the door and sits on the closest bar stool to where I was singing. He was there to make some phone calls and watch the Jets game, apparently. I handled myself with grace and poise...I think. (Can't say the same for some guests who were coming in to dine. Two women got up the nerve to ask for a photo op, only to be denied!) I didn't let the celebrity behind me distract me anymore than the screaming kid. He was shrieking with joy at the music, I'm sure.

Listen for yourself...Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man! Keep in mind, there was no rehearsal for this. Or maybe this was the rehearsal.
(Photo credit, Headshots by Joseph Allen. Steve K Murphy, piano)

After three hours of back and forth (there was another singer sharing the time), we, the musicians were invited to the head table to eat and drink... A first at this establishment! Steve, the pianist, suspected it might have been something nice Mr. Big said to his pal, the owner. Or maybe that we were just exceptionally entertaining, the parts that were heard. In any case, the night was a success, because the only thing I decided to achieve was to sing, and gosh darn, have a little fun while I'm doing it!

What's in a name?: an introduction

I have been called a lot of different things in my 26 short years:

Dancer, Soprano, Stage Animal, Southern Girl, Most Likely to Succeed, Stage Addict, Valedictorian, Winner, Loser, Chava, Poopsie, Sister, Favorite, Na-na....and now...

Opera Singer.

Mom remembers when she decided what my full name would be. She was sitting on the swing, herself and her 7-month-round pregnant belly, when it came to her. I would be named Maria Kate Fleming, a graceful combination of family names and heritage. Kate for short.

Up until I began graduate school at Peabody Conservatory, I never felt so strongly about using my entire name. Sure, people knew that I went by my middle name, and I made sure my high school diploma included the whole thing. But it wasn't until I moved farther away from home and into adulthood that I made the decision.
I announced at our first opera department informational meeting, "Hi, my name is Maria Kate. Both names are my first name. It's a southern thing!" I waited for the response. Did it work? Did they believe me? Was I bluffing? It felt a little strange, this altered self. Nervous laughs and mumbled comments greeted me. I was certain this distinction would give me an edge. Who would remember just plain ol' "Kate"?

As I'd suspected, the questions followed: "Is it okay if I call you just Maria?" or "Do you know the Olsen twins? Haha, you know, like Mary-Kate? That's your name, right?" Yes, truly, everybody's a comedian! I put a great amount of effort into clarifying what I wanted to be called: Maria Kate, all four syllables, no hyphen, just a two-in-one like Betty Sue or Jamie Lynn or Minnie Mouse. All the corrections finally caught on, and I suddenly had a new identity. I created a new me, separate, yet connected to my Mississippi home.

I plastered my new name, my real name, on my resumes, audition applications, and assignments. Trying my hardest to get comfortable hearing more than one syllable, I made no exceptions, until...

I formed close friendships with some of my colleagues. Something didn't feel right. I was acting as if this new label had to come with a new angle on life, with even higher expectations than before. The me I knew tap danced and wrote silly poems and ate fried food and twirled a baton. Maria Kate had to be more professional, more unique, more focused, more everything! But maybe not more me. Eventually, I requested that my buddies call me just Kate.


Four years later, the verdict is still out. All 6 syllables of my full name remain as my professional name, and I will always be Maria Kate to some directors, teachers, and colleagues. Lately, though, in this post-grad/pre-full-time-career existence, I find myself reaching out to a new hand, unsure of what will come out. So...let's see...

Hi. It's nice to meet you. You can just call me Kate.