The Opera called.

The Opera called.

“I want to be a prima donna-donna-donna...” These lyrics from the popular art song, “Art is Calling for Me” are still haunting me days after our last Opera on Tap-Atlanta event where Vernay Dabney serenaded us with a hilarious rendition of this campy classic. The melody tends to stick with you like a bad hangover, so naturally, I’ve been youtubing performances of the song in search of a little hair of the dog. I am still, at this very moment, humming that pecking little line uncontrollably. I did not find a cure for that melodious hangover, but the repetition of the title, “Art is Calling for Me,” did take me back to a defining moment in my career. 

 I was weeks out of grad school and my ambitious plan to take the opera world by storm had been squashed by the Real World. As one might expect, finding a “dayjob” with a degree in music is as easy as trying to convince Dolly Parton that sequins aren’t appropriate for daywear. I had filled out more job applications in one month than I had in my entire adult life. Thankfully, the interviews started to come in. In one week’s time I interviewed for a position as a secretary, barista, eldercare assistant, daycare worker, receptionist, burger flipper, fry dropper, cell phone salesperson, and a “customer care representative” for a very questionable phone company that was listed on Craigslist. I was met with very positive feedback at these interviews, until they reached the portion of my resume where I listed my education. The comments, which I answered with a fiery inner monologue, usually followed this exact formula: “Ah, a degree in Music. I like Music.” [Everyone does. I bet you like food too. And air. Air is awesome.] “What exactly do you do with a degree in music?” [Apparently I sit through endless interviews trying to convince a bunch of baffoons to give me a minimum wage job. I also sing in the shower. But, you are not invited to that concert, you creepy, creepy manager] “You should audition for American Idol.” [You should try to wear less body spray. You smell like urinal cakes and gardenias.] Then one day, a delightfully naive manager jarred me out of my interview trance with her response. “I like you. I really want to hire you, but what happens if you’re at work one day and The Opera calls?” I stared at her for an eternity, and then laughed in her face. I did not get the job.

 That sweet little Bouffant Betty left me with some incredible mental images of The Opera. I envisioned a war room in the Pentagon with Pavarotti,  Callas, Fleming, Sills, Sutherland, and Horne all sweaty-browed and hovered around a red phone, ready to enlist the troops of new opera singers. I saw myself in a penthouse office suite as a high powered executive taking messages from my receptionist. “The Opera called.” “Oh yeah, what do those suckers want? Tell them I’m in a meeting. I’ll be in a meeting for the next five years.” Then I imagined a large telethon. The Opera was seated among The Dance, The Theater, The Stage, The Pen, The Runway, and The Poet. Each medium was making calls to their artists to solicit donations.  

 Truth be told, however, The Opera has called me.  I first received the call when I was a sophomore in college on the opera stage for the first time. I had spent my life singing hymns in church, and all I knew of The Opera was a fat lady with horns. It took one rehearsal of La Traviata before I was hooked, for life. The Opera called me that day, and told me that my loud mouth might be useful for something besides all six verses of “Just As I Am.” Later, when I had convinced myself that majoring in music was a waste of time, The Opera called to remind me that music was my first love, and that it deserved the effort. When I was discouraged by rejections, and lost competitions, and a barrage of thanks-but-no-thanks letters, The Opera called to tell me to keep going, and that those judges were just poopy-heads anyway. When I found myself engaging in smack talk with fellow singers, judging the length of that skirt, or the flatness of that note, or the orangeness of that lipstick, The Opera called to remind me that our art is bigger than our judgement. When I was paralyzed with performance anxiety, The Opera called with a gentle reminder that it was all just a matter of breathing in and breathing out. When I let the hunt for a silly little day job consume me with self-pity, regret, and bitterness,  The Opera called, smacked me over the head, and told me to get over myself. When I was adjusting to life in a new city, away from the comfort of trusted professors and colleagues, The Opera called and invited me to have a few beers and sing a few arias with some new friends. The Opera and I have a track record. It will call me again. 

It will call you too. 

Will you answer? 

-Ashley

Yay for Blogs!

Yes, it's beginning.  The OOTlanta blog. But where do we even begin?

We've been around a while and it seems like we are finally breaking some ground into expanding our vision of what Opera On Tap is meant to be.

I've always thought of it as a way to expose people to opera who might not have the chance to see it because of "lack of interest" in classical music.  These people are always pleasantly surprised, which makes it so much fun and lets us OOTers know that our drunken singing is not in vain.

We now have a monthly gig with the great people at Pizzeria Venti in Buckhead too!  Terry Moon, one of the owners, wanted to do an opera night and through providence met two great friends of mine who then recommended he contact OOT about our services.  Our first gig went well, not as many singers as I would have liked, but we still had a pretty big crowd and it was a lot fun.  Pizzeria Venti is a beatiful restaurant AND the food is ah-mah-zing. Seriously.  So tasty. Even if you don't come to OOT, you have to go there to have those Bacci balls. Oh my god. I want one right now. 

Valentine's day is around the corner, so of course we must have an Anti-Valentine's Day theme to celebrated our jadedness with this most un-holy of holidays. I love a good break-up song, so we might as well sing some break-up arias, eh?

Come out on February 10th at 7:30 at Pizzeria Venti in Buckhead Atlanta to hear us or sing with us!  We will be back there every 2nd THURSDAY of the month from now on too.

Update on Friday, January 20, 2012 at 08:36AM by Atlanta Admin

The Opera called.

“I want to be a prima donna-donna-donna...” These lyrics from the popular art song, “Art is Calling for Me” are still haunting me days after our last Opera on Tap-Atlanta event where Vernay Dabney serenaded us with a hilarious rendition of this campy classic. The melody tends to stick with you like a bad hangover, so naturally, I’ve been youtubing performances of the song in search of a little dose of the hair of the dog. I am still, at this very moment, humming that pecking little line uncontrollably. I did not find a cure for  that melodious hangover, but the repetition of the title, “Art is Calling for Me,” did take me back to a defining moment in my career. 

 I was weeks out of grad school and my ambitious plan to take the opera world by storm had been squashed by the Real World. As one might expect, finding a “dayjob” with a degree in music is as easy as trying to convince Dolly Parton that sequins aren’t appropriate for daywear. I had filled out more job applications in one month than I had in my entire adult life. Thankfully, the interviews started to come in. In one week’s time I interviewed for a position as a secretary, barista, eldercare assistant, daycare worker, receptionist, burger flipper, fry dropper, cell phone salesperson, and a “customer care representative” for a very questionable phone company that was listed on Craigslist. I was met with very positive feedback at these interviews, until they reached the portion of my resume where I listed my education. The comments, which I answered with a fiery inner monologue, usually followed this exact formula: “Ah, a degree in Music. I like Music.” [Everyone does. I bet you like food too. And air. Air is awesome.] “What exactly do you do with a degree in music?” [Apparently I sit through endless interviews trying to convince a bunch of baffoons to give me a minimum wage job. I also sing in the shower. But, you are not invited to that concert, you creepy, creepy manager] “You should audition for American Idol.” [You should try to wear less body spray. You smell like urinal cakes and gardenias.] Then one day, a delightfully naive manager jarred me out of my interview trance with her response. “I like you. I really want to hire you, but what happens if you’re at work one day and The Opera calls?” I stared at her for an eternity, and then laughed in her face. I did not get the job.

 That sweet little Bouffant Betty left me with some incredible mental images of The Opera. I envisioned a war room in the Pentagon with Pavarotti,  Callas, Fleming, Sills, Sutherland, and Horne all sweaty-browed and hovered around a red phone, ready to enlist the troops of new opera singers. I saw myself in a penthouse office suite as a high powered executive taking messages from my receptionist. “The Opera called.” “Oh yeah, what do those suckers want? Tell them I’m in a meeting. I’ll be in a meeting for the next five years.” Then I imagined a large telethon. The Opera was seated among The Dance, The Theater, The Stage, The Pen, The Runway, and The Poet. Each medium was making calls to their artists to solicit donations.  

 Truth be told, however, The Opera has called me.  I first received the call when I was a sophomore in college on the opera stage for the first time. I had spent my life singing hymns in church and all I knew of The Opera was a fat lady with horns. It took one rehearsal of La Traviata before I was hooked, for life. The Opera called me that day and told me that my loud mouth might be useful for something besides all six verses of “Just As I Am.” Later, when I had convinced myself that majoring in music was a waste of time, The Opera called to remind me that music was my first love, and that it was worth of all of the effort. When I  was discouraged by rejections, and lost competitions, and a barrage of thanks-but-no-thanks letters, The Opera called to tell me to keep going, and that those judges were just poopy-heads anyway. Then I found myself engaging in smack talk with fellow singers, judging the length of that skirt, or the flatness of that note, or the orangeness of that lipstick. The Opera called to remind me that our art is bigger than our judgement. When I was paralyzed with performance anxiety, The Opera called with a gentle reminder that it was all just a matter of breathing in and breathing out. When I let the hunt for a silly little day job consume me with self-pity, regret, and bitterness,  The Opera called, smacked me over the head, and told me to get over myself. When I was adjusting to life in a new city, away from the comfort of trusted professors and colleagues, The Opera called and invited me to have a few beers and sing a few arias with some new friends. The Opera and I have a track record. It will call me again. 

It will call you too. 

Will you answer? 

-Ashley