Michelle Rodriguez's Blog: A Little Bit of Me - Posts Tagged "singing"

I’m a singer. I don’t know where it came from. As a child, I was known for putting together little shows with the cousins for family Christmas parties and singing Madonna on tables with my light-up microphone in bangle bracelets. But most kids do that; it’s pretty ordinary. It was fun, but not something I would have expected would be my future passion.

At 14, I found my voice. Most would think it would be wonderful to figure out that you’re talented at something you enjoy doing. What no one prepares you for is the reaction you get afterward. Everyone assumes it is so easy to open one’s mouth and sing. They think because YOU are your instrument, you can just sing on command if they want to hear you. Family is the worst when it comes to that sort of thinking.

“They’re probably going to ask you to sing…” That was my mother’s line usually as we would be getting ready to attend any and every family function as if it were sufficient warning. That was typically followed by a “This could be (insert family relation)’s last (insert holiday).” Ah, yes, the guilt! As a teenager, that always ended up working, and I’d sit through whatever family function just waiting for the call. It would always come near the end, way after I’d warmed up and after a big meal or dessert, or something you definitely don’t want to be singing on. And then I’d be expected to get up and put on a one-girl show, singing something (preferably in English so everybody could understand it!) and act like it was OK despite the fact that I didn’t want to be singing. I was not the same outgoing child ready to sing on tables; I was shy about my talent and hated the attention I got from my family for it. I tell you from experience that it is so much easier to sing for a room full of strangers! When it’s family, it’s like a punishment! There’s too much “I wish (again insert family relation) was here to hear you sing like that”, “she got her voice from MY side of the family”, “I can hardly wait to see you on the big opera stage”.

The best at being over-proud was my grandfather. I love the man and miss him so much since he died a few years ago, but he was exceptionally good at telling everyone he met (including perfect strangers) that his granddaughter was an opera singer. Oh, I do mean everyone! The man could make conversation with the sales clerk, the waiter, the random person walking out of a store, ANYONE! It’s a talent I wish I had!

When I was in college, I spent my spring breaks flying down to Florida to stay with him and my grandma. Because this was usually mid-term time, I needed to keep my voice in shape, so my grandfather got the managers of the country club to let me use their piano and their big room to practice in the mornings. It was embarrassing enough because golfers would wander in and out, and I’d continuously have to stop and glare until they moved on. But then he’d insist we go to dinner at the club and ask the waiters and people at random nearby tables if they’d heard his granddaughter sing. Ducked head, red cheeks. I could barely mutter a reply!

And the one that takes the cake. I went out to dinner with my grandparents and a table full of their friends. Imagine it: me at 19 years old and a table full of elderly people who were polishing off one wine bottle after another. We were at Macaroni’s Grill on a crowded Friday night, and then it started again with the waiter. “Did you know my granddaughter’s an opera singer? You should hear her sing.” Ducked head, red cheeks, and then came the part that had me ready to run out the door. “Why don’t you sing something for us?” A restaurant full of almost 100 people, loud with chatter, and he wanted me to sing? And then all of the others at our table started with the subtle coercion. “We’ve never heard you sing before”. “We might not see you again for a long time”. “Come on, just one song”. And I had to sing! In a restaurant full of people, who all silenced with the first few notes and stared! And it wasn’t fun at all! I am not good at being a prima donna; I never have been. I get too easily intimidated, and at college age, I still was having a hard time getting up my nerve to audition for solos let alone sing in full restaurants!

There is a scene in my phantom story “Untouchable” where Erik coerces Christine to sing in a café full of people even though she doesn’t want to. Ever wonder where the idea from that scene came from? That was as real as it gets! But Christine had more guts than I ever could. She sang purposely mediocre at first just to spite him and then proceeded to show off and be the diva. In my situation, I just wanted it over with as quickly as possible!

I have a recital this upcoming Saturday. To those of you who know me, you know that I am not that same scared teenager, nervous to be put on the spot and forced to share her talent. I get anxious, of course; that’s natural, but I love to perform on MY terms. Warmed up, on a stage, with an accompanist to at least give me the key and a pitch! Being onstage is an exhilaration. I love every single moment and try to savor it for what it is. But it was those impromptu performances at family parties and restaurants that made me strong, that made me come out of my shell and be unafraid to leave it all on the stage. I love to let the music take me away and make something beautiful. I love high notes and the challenge in coloratura phrases. I love not singing it perfectly in rehearsals and having that bit of fear that keeps me on my toes during the real show. I love seeing the audience and knowing that I have them in the palm of my hand from the moment I open my mouth. I have a lot of pressure on me all the time, mostly from myself, but I let it go when I’m onstage. Of course, I know my mistakes, but I try to outshine them and make them inconsequential in the end.

There have been a few instances in my life due to health reasons that I’ve had to step away from singing. Every time I gave it up, it felt like I wasn’t myself anymore, like I was missing something crucial inside. I’ve put myself and my voice back together countless times now, and I spend so much time working on my technique and my art every single day. I don’t regret a second of it. I wouldn’t be me if I weren’t singing. I AM the little opera singer my grandfather was always so proud of.

I don’t remember the last time my grandfather heard me sing before he died. It was probably Sunday mass or another family wedding, but I know that he heard me afterward. The hardest thing I ever had to do was sing his funeral, but I knew he’d want me to. The proud grandfather. I heard time and time again that “no one sang better” than me. Of course, he was partial, but I like knowing he truly believed that. To this day, before I step out onto the stage, I blow two kisses up into the air: one is for my Nonno Louis who died when I was a child and one is for my grandfather. I like to believe they listen to me sing even from heaven.

Being a performer, I’ve learned that family members are both your biggest fans and the biggest pains in the neck, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve learned that music is a blessing never to be taken for granted. Once it’s in your blood, it doesn’t come out again; it IS you. And I’ve learned that if you have a gift, it’s your right to share it. If you don’t, it’s like you don’t have a gift at all and it goes wasted. Singing is one of my gifts, and I hope to always be able to share it with the world.

When I first found out I was going to play the Queen of the Night, I freaked out a little. Most people would assume it was the fast coloratura and the high F’s giving me nightmares. The role has always been called “virtuosic”, and of course, that is a lot to live up to. But the cause for my immediate anxiety was not singing at all. It was the idea of playing a villain. I’ve never played a villain. I’ve never wanted to play a villain. I’m always the good girl, the innocent heroine; even when I’ve played the jilted wife in both Die Fledermaus and The Marriage of Figaro, I’ve been on the good side of the moral compass. But a villain… That is as far from my comfort zone as I’ve ever ventured to go.

Villain has such a stereotype attached. I attribute it to Disney. The word villain brings to mind Ursula the sea witch and Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty, all dark colors and grating laughs so full of malice and sinister design. And who in their right mind would want to be the tentacled sea witch over the beautiful princess longing for love? Never has a little girl run around the house playing pretend as the Evil Queen out to poison Snow White or the Stepmother locking Cinderella in a tower. If I had told my mother that I wanted an Evil Queen costume as a child, she would have thought something was wrong with me! My sisters and I were always the princesses and good girls. Countless Halloweens were passed as Dorothy from Wizard of Oz, Snow White, Belle, Alice from Alice in Wonderland. Little girls don’t choose to be the evil antagonists.

In last year’s production of The Mikado, I played the epitome of heroine. Yum-Yum is the innocent, pretty, young girl, just released from school and seeing the world for the first time. She is naïve to the ways of life and love, a little self-centered as she admires her own beauty and foolishly optimistic. At the time, I tried to find layers to her character, but she is exactly what she seems. She doesn’t have a tragic back-story, a past that leads her to question Nanki-Poo’s love or fear the world. Perhaps had she not earned her happy ending, and Nanki-Poo was beheaded, she would have developed darker traits and transform into a more three dimensional person, but the happy couple gets the happily ever after and therefore fulfill their preset roles.

Being a villain is something entirely different. A good villain needs to be insightful and surprisingly intelligent, not just evil for evil’s sake. The Queen of the Night is a grieving mother; her first appearance in the opera, she is lamenting and mourning the loss of her daughter Pamina who has been taken by her enemy Sarastro. She truly loves her daughter, and yet in act two, she tells her daughter that if she doesn’t kill Sarastro, she will disown and abandon her. It makes no sense that the Queen’s attitude would suddenly shift from wanting her daughter returned to disowning her. There are so many more layers to it than that, and to play the Queen and do it successfully, she has to show a much wider array of emotions and a maturity well beyond the innocence of a heroine.

I was terrified with the idea of playing such a complex role, of carrying myself with her regality and confidence, knowing it must exude from every gesture and every expression. I am still anxious. It would be impossible to be calm a week before the show’s opening. But for every nerve, there is anticipation. I am excited to play this role, excited for the challenge and to push myself out of my comfort zone. Every rehearsal I’ve had to learn to be someone I’m not. When heroines were practically branches of my existential self, this has been the opposite extreme. …And yet this has been the most fun I’ve ever had in a show. It’s easy to play someone close to your own self; the difficulty comes in being someone else and finding reasons for their actions, defining and defending their personality and even if you don’t agree with it, portraying it as if you do.

The Queen’s Vengeance aria starts: “The wrath of hell within my breast I cherish/ Death, desperation are the oath I swore”. Michelle Gliottoni-Rodriguez does not agree with a single word, but the Queen needs to be 100% convicted without falter in proclamation. The Queen doesn’t think she’s evil; she might call herself the tortured heroine, but that’s just another layer. And I have to play her that way. I can’t call her evil because she needs motive and reason. She needs a heart somewhere beneath all the darkness. She needs to feel human even if she has super powers, can grab you without a touch from her hands, and appears by thunder and lightning. She needs to be more than a caricature of evil, otherwise she won’t be real.

Next week, The Magic Flute opens. I don’t know when I’ll get to play a villain again; I look too much like the proverbial heroine/princess, and so I will be savoring this show all the more. Compared to everything I’ve done and will do, this might be at the top. A challenge to sing, a challenge to play, always on my toes and anticipating what’s to come. How could I ever grow bored? The biggest joy in performing is being someone you’re not; this time I’m really someone I’m not, and it’s absolutely liberating. Michelle sits back and the Queen emerges, and hopefully, when fully costumed and ready to go, she will truly be a figure worthy of both fear and respect. I doubt it will inspire little girls to want to be sea witches and queens in their games of pretend, but hopefully, it will show that villains are much more than evil.

I have a little man that lives inside my head. He isn’t a very nice person; he’s usually full of mean comments and criticisms. Incessant, unavoidable, and he truly talks more than anyone I’ve ever met. Some might think he’s another character waiting for his story to be written, and believe me, if he were, I would have written that tale long ago and freed myself from his aggravating presence. But I am not that lucky. No, he is my sometimes friend, sometimes enemy, Perfectionism, and we’ve been together for as long as I can remember.

To some degree, every person has a voice of self-doubt. Some are quieter than others’ and speak no more than whispers in the background that don’t interfere with life. Confidence is supposed to mute its volume, and proven triumphs should build a barrier wall between the truth outside our heads and that nagging voice within that questions it. For example: I am a writer; other people have told me that I am a good writer; therefore I should consider myself a good writer. If only it were that simple! But here is where Perfectionism puts a wrench in things. Trial and error should have made this fact to me, but I have that cursed little man running circles in my head and insisting otherwise. He never shuts up, no matter what proof I have that his claims are unwarranted. No matter accolades and compliments, no matter the depth to which I love what I do, that voice argues against me.

I look at Perfectionism as a curse some of the time. I cannot enjoy things for what they are because I’m so fixed on making them perfect, which is really sad when reality tells us perfection doesn’t exist. Nothing I do can live up to the standard I set for myself. That is the unfavorable truth of the matter. But…for every grief perfectionism causes, there are advantages. I am always pushing myself. Whether it is on the stage singing or devising a new story that is outside my comfort limits, I never settle for anything but throwing everything out there.

In singing, that is such an integral component. I have to get up onstage and just sing without the constant critique in my head. When singing, you can’t trust your ears. You have to trust how things feel on the inside. My teacher constantly tells me to stop trying to listen because that’s what I pay her for. And it’s true. Your ears lie. The sounds you hear are mere echoes of the sounds you’re making. For a perfectionist like me, that is practically torture. I have to discredit what I think I’m hearing and trust feeling instead. Gasp! When I’m onstage, I have no choice but to turn off Mr. Perfectionism and sing! He has his say later when we can overanalyze every show together and pick at our faults. But I don’t cower to his opinion and decide never to set foot on the stage again. Instead, I try to exceed what I did last time: make my coloratura cleaner, faster, make the high note blossom on the pitch. He is never happy with my performance, but he makes me a better singer because of it.

In writing, it’s an entirely different situation. I throw it all out there when a pencil is between my fingers, but later, I have the final product before me to pick apart as I please. A show is just that; once the final bows are taken, critique all you like, but the show is over. Aside from video copies (which I never watch), no one will relive it except in memories. With writing, I have physical proof forever before me.

For that reason, I cannot go back and reread any of my published works or posted stories. That probably seems odd. One would think I would draw inspiration by rereading, or that the mere fact I am so passionate about my stories and characters would mean that I revisit them often. But I can’t! I don’t read my own stuff for the enjoyment of it; I read and rip it apart. It literally is like both a writer and an editor live in my brain at the same time. That isn’t always a bad thing, but when Perfectionism gets thrown into the mix, then every critical word I have to say about myself gets amplified and overtakes.

Those of you who know me from my frequently posted Phantom of the Opera stories have had glimpses of my self-doubting nature and my addled nerves every time a new story goes up. What you don’t know is the true extent. I edit everything before it is posted, and as words fly by and I try to fall into my story, I am constantly critical about what others will think of it. That voice speaks up inside and insists that every reader will hate it, that it isn’t as good as some of the others I’ve posted, that it will make my every loyal reader turn away from me and wonder what the heck that particular story was. There have been times where I’ve edited a story and put off posting it for days because I was so full of doubts that Perfectionism created, and even though they hold no real validity, they make me hesitate and question. He’s never satisfied, and when I go back and reread, he makes me unsatisfied as well.

Perfectionism makes me strive for new stories in new places, makes me fight to write tales others wouldn’t touch, builds me up by promising if I have an idea, I can always work it out. But then in the end, its voice gives a skewed view of the final product and makes me want to interpret what my readers will say. How foolish indeed! Mr. Perfectionism is a cunning one, and he knows right where to hit me.

It’s so difficult to find a balance. Perfectionism is a curse and a blessing. I push myself to more and better things because of it, but at the same time, I am never satisfied with the things I’ve already done. But despite its undeniable power over me, I’m trying to chip away at its hold. At the end of the day, if I gather courage enough to post the story I mentally ripped apart in edits or sing with every bit of myself on that stage, then I’m winning meager battles. I’m never going to be cured or kill Perfectionism permanently, but for those few moments, I outwit his control, and I guess I’ll have to settle for that.