Evening Star Newspaper, June 2, 1929, Page 95

STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C. JUNE 2, 1920—PART 7',,, T R e By Latorence Trbbert The Young American Baritone, Who Sings at the Metropolitan, Asserts Opera Stars Have No More Temperament Than Other People, but the Emotional Excitement of Their Jobs Makes Them Do Things to Get Talked About. HY are opera singers always doing wild things and rushing to ex- tremes? And what are the reasons for it? If you put these questions to the artists them- . Selves they may answer with a shrug of the shoulders; why should they be bothered if they do fantastic things as long as no special trouble comes frcm doing them? The answer of pecple in general would be, “Oh! it's only the artistic temperament!” But being in the game myself I think it can be traced to one big cause—a “cause that would make all placed in the same position act exactly as opera singers do. The wild things artists enjoy hugely often have a spice of danger in them; often are hilarious, especially to onlookers, and not in- frequently involve reckless expenditure. But one and all bring thrills. That is what the opera singer is after. ‘Take a singers’ party, for instance. It is none of your conventional, “I'm charmed to meet you,” teapot functions, but no less refined than parties given by others, though on the surface it has a very fury of mirth. Some man singers delight in prizefights, and prima donnas are not averse to them. And they make more noise than any others there, get more thrill out of it. Card games at a friend’s house, preferably poker, bring another thrill. Though playing for high stakes, opera people play so often that when the season ends each man has about as much as when he started. As for opera singers’ parties, they are apt to be among the noisiest that ever happen. Everybody talks at once; later, action follows words. When things get really going, two man celebrities may burlesque a scene from opera, down to the duel in it, which they fight out with shovel and tongs all over the place and finally get down to being in earnest. Those present, including prima donnas, trail the duel- ists breathlessly to see how it will end, exactly like the gallery at a golf tournament, only more excited. I know one famous opera singer who can never go to sleep after a performance unless she attends that kind of party. For that mat- ter, on returning to my hotel room after a re- cital in a strange city, I feel desolated with loneliness, thirsty for excitement. But I also know when I am in the midst of a strenuous tour I can’t give way to impulse. We work hard and we play hard. Yet with the seasoned opera singer the thougat of keep- ing in good voice is ever presws, and keeping in good voice means sae¥fices. Being still all day when one is to sing that night is not a cheerful undertaking. Try it. Calling one day on a tenor friend, billed for that night as Tannhauser, I found him seated at a table on which stood a teapot, whose steam he was industriously inhaling from the spout. ““Have you a cold?” I asked. “Oh! no,” he answered genially, “but you see it’s raining, and I dare not go out. So I had to do something, and my wife thought of the teapot.” Behind it all, parties, prizefights, cards, high- speed driving, or any other thrill-giver, there is this impelling cause: We live under dangerous conditions, with our nerves on tension. Always we are striving to sustain our pace in art and increase the stature of our reputations. We are keyed up like soldiers under fire. There can be no let-up; things must go on and on. To sit down in serene calm in the midst of it would be a torture comparable to soldiers who had just gone over the top and were called on to immediately attend a tea. THE greatest thrill I can recall was one replete with danger. Due in New York for a con- cert coming close between two others, the only way I could reach that city in time was to fly there by airplane, and, next day, fly back West to sing the other engagement. The New York concert was a patriotic benefit for funds to help restore the frigate Old Ironsides, veteran of many historic battles. The Government gener- ously placed an airplane at my service for the trip. We hopped off from the flying field at Day- ton, Ohio, in brilliant sunshine. A little later we entered heavy fog banks; flying to great height or again descending low, we could not escape them: Mountains were ahead; where we were or what was under us we did not know; a dense blanket lay all about us. A storm broke, bringing us down at Bolling Field, in Washington; up we went again in a strong wind. Delay threatened to make me late for the concert. That alone, in the whole affair, gave me worry; otherwise the uncer- tainty or possibility of a final crash never came into my head. I was having the great thrill of my life! The last lap of that flight was the most in- spiring. Emerging from black cloud banks we had pierced at 125 miles an hour, we saw ahead the glare of search’ghts on Mitchel Field, Long Island. It was 9 o'clock at night. Land- ing, the race for New York and the concert at Madison Square Garden started. I was already very late. There had been no time to dress or even wash. Still in flying clothes, I was rushed out on the stage to sing, and got a reception that made the thrill continuous. A recent portrait of the Metropolitan baritone, Lawrence Tibbett. HEN the Metropolitan Opera Co. goes on its Spring tour, a cage of canaries could not be gayer than our special cars, though there is no singing, for that would cause a riot. It is, instead, noisy card games; a fine fire of chatter; practical jokes, with all but the victim delighted, and gay telling of many funny things that happened to us, this being our first real chance of the year to relate them. We are all there, long rehearsals ended, the season almost over, Summer holidays just around the corner. There are among ourselves endless practical jokes, all more or less exciting, a part of that thrill which must be continuous. One of them, hewever, of those I can recall, might scarcely be vegarded as merely playful. I was traveling with an organization, not the opera company. On reaching the city of our next appearance the prima donna said, “Come with me. We all seem stale. I know where to get a wonderful drink that will set us up.” No stranger to pots and pans. Lawrence Tibbett, the opera star, prepares luncheon for his young sons. Thirsty at the mere prospect, we nesded md urging to obey. Arriving at a drug store, our prima donna held whispered consultation with the proprietor, Hopes ran high. Moistening our lips, we climbed onto high stools, all in a row before the soda fountain, Tall glasses were swiftly set before us. Hasty ones swallowed their contents at a single gulp. Others, who drank more leisurely, found strange flavor toward the end. In each glass of soda had been put a two-ounce dose of castor oill I REMEMBER well another joke. It, too, had a sting in it, and happened when, just out of boyhood, I was singing in light opera on the Pacific Coast. There was a soubrette who al« ways cut in at a certain point and stopped 2p- plause for the prima donna’s aria by beginning her own tra-la immediately. Having her en- trance at that critical moment she always managed to spoil her colleague’s success. At last after many wordy contests all in vain, the prima donna set out to get even with her sister artist. Getting a big sign painted on white pasteboard and reading: “THIS IS TETRAZZINL"” she managed to pin it on the back of the soubrette’s coat just as she was starting for a walk. Crowds followed her. People knew she was not Tetrazzini, but that sign assembled a cavalcade. It trailed her back to the hotel. Entering, somewhat flushed by what appeared to her a tribute to renown, she met her friend, the prima donna, in the foyer. “Did you sed how everybody knows me?” asked the soubrette radiantly. “Yes, dear,” was the answer, “but what s that you're wearing on your back?” No more did the soubrette cut in on the prima donna’s hard-won applause. TH‘E general belief of singers seems to be that to keep eternal youth one must use it. Once excitement is set going at high vibration ‘it is impossible to stop sharply. The:r bubbling, reckless joyousness may sometimes be mistaken- ly called vulgar. But those mistaking it would ‘be the first to condemn an opera performance lacking that very dash of spirit. This is not said in a fault-finding sense, but merely stating the opera singer's case. After giving out all he has in a-performance, he can- not, speaking figuratively, be tucked in bed and told to go to sleep. It can’t be done. . A very old and great authority once stated that no singer who has been restrained by ex- .verience in conventional society, where all emo~ tions are concealed, could ever reach success ag an actor or actress. Play of emotions in opera make its very foun~ dation. They must burn, glow at white heat. The thrill of the music is behind it. The strug- gle to do one’s very best is there. It becomes reality, plus an exaltation that often carries us to heights we dare not hope to touch. Being human creatures and not airplanes, we cannot’ be wheeled at once into the hangar when our feet again touch earth, HUMBLE things as well as exciting thrills bring enjoyment to the singer. Many men of the opera cook delightfully, not only their native dishes, but entrees of a delicious<" ness, as the French put it, that makes their Continued on Page Seven.