If They Didn't Love Their Jobs, They'd Be Singing the Blues

By SUSAN VAUGHN

Aug. 16, 1999 12 AM PT

SPECIAL TO THE TIMES

They’re not famous like Luciano, Placido or Cecilia. But without them, there would be no opera.

The choristers and extras at America’s top opera companies help bring operatic masterpieces to life. They are the revelers at Don Giovanni’s last lavish palazzo party, before he’s banished to Hell. They are the amused Parisian cafegoers in “La Boheme” who delight at Musetta’s outrageous flirtations. And they are the soldiers, cigarette factory workers, taverngoers and gypsies who bear witness to the ill-fated romance of Carmen and her impetuous lover, Jose.

The applause at curtain’s fall each night during these performances is rarely for such cast members. Though they’ve rehearsed for weeks and given their all to the performances, those shouts of “Bravo!” and “Bravissimo!” tend to be aimed at the big-name soloists headlining the opera.

Audiences aren’t the only ones who may dismiss choristers’ and extras’ hard work. In some cases, they are barely acknowledged by opera directors and snubbed by haughty principal singers.

Act 1: The Choristers

Truly, opera choristers are unsung heroes who sing. Some sarcastically refer to themselves as “singing props.” Their invisibility hurts.

“Many choristers are bitter and angry,” says C.J. Williamson, editor in chief of Classical Singer magazine. “They spend thousands of dollars and years in training to become artists but aren’t treated like ones. They have no life--their rehearsals can start at 10 a.m. and last until midnight. And no matter how good they do, who knows?”

Despite such complaints, competition for chorus positions at America’s biggest opera companies is intense. Why? The stability, financial security and prestige among singers are hard to match. Very few classical singers can earn living wages as career soloists. Although a very few rarefied stars can rake in more than $25,000 per appearance, the vast majority of soloists would be ecstatic to earn that in a year.

“There are a lot of singers holding down temp jobs,” says Williamson. Others take non-music-related day jobs. Some teach singing. A majority take on “giglets”--paid singing work at churches, temples and private functions. In Los Angeles, classical singers also compete for studio work, commercials and voice-overs.

So imagine how enticing an opportunity to sing opera eight months of the year, with salary and benefits, can be. Each year, open-call chorus auditions at New York’s Metropolitan Opera draw between 300 and 400 hopefuls--”whether or not there are any openings,” says Mary Meyers, a lyric soprano who’s been with the Met opera chorus for 15 seasons.

The 80 Met choristers earn between $80,000 and $115,000 for their work during a breakneck season of more than 220 performances, which runs from August to May. Choristers at the San Francisco Opera and the Lyric Opera of Chicago make between $30,000 and $40,000 for their shorter seasons of about 80 performances, say representatives of both companies. And Los Angeles Opera choristers, who perform for a comparatively short season of 56 performances, can make about $18,000 to $20,000 “if they appear in every opera,” says one Los Angeles Opera chorister.

“I think everyone in the chorus originally had aspirations to be a soloist, not to end up here,” Meyers says of her Met colleagues. “But along the way, they made the decision that they wanted family, a stable life, security--or they just didn’t have the personality for a cutthroat soloist’s career.

“My aspirations were to make my living as a singer in whatever way I could find,” Meyers says. “But I’d long ceased to think I could have a profitable life in music. When I auditioned for this, it changed my life.”

Like their high-profile soloist counterparts, choristers train hard to get where they are. They’ve taken classes in voice, acting, musicianship, language/dialect coaching and, in some cases, even dance and fencing. Many have advanced music degrees. Some have studied in Europe. The most conscientious ones continue to hone their singing techniques throughout their lives.

Still, a few choristers, particularly the youngest ones, aspire to solo careers, says Jim Meyer, manager of the San Francisco Opera chorus, and a chorister himself since 1974. They remain willing to abandon the security of their jobs for the scary but potentially thrilling world of the soloist. Only an excruciatingly small percentage will ever become stars in their own right, however.

Though the chorister’s job may be stable, it’s not cushy and not without risks. The long rehearsals can be grueling. Some singers’ voices grow strained by season’s end, says Jason Balla, a tenor in the chorus of the Lyric Opera of Chicago.

A few develop severe allergies to moldy sets, costume paint and stage fog. The resulting watery eyes, headaches and laryngitis can knock them out of action, Meyers says. Other choristers develop back and shoulder aches from spending hours on steeply raked stages, often while wearing heavy costumes. Their ears are assaulted too. Operatic singing can easily exceed 100 decibels--the equivalent of a jackhammer’s noise 3 feet away.

Add to this the threat of probation. In many companies, if a chorister’s singing declines, he or she may be put on written notice to improve or face termination.

But despite the hardships, being “In the Shadow of the Stars” (the title of an Academy Award-winning full-length documentary about the San Francisco Opera chorus) can be ultimately rewarding. Most of the choristers interviewed say they wouldn’t choose any other career.

“When I first came into the chorus, an elderly tenor in ‘La Boheme’ said to me: ‘I never get tired of this. Wait till you hear the applause as the curtain goes up!’ ” says Meyers. “He was right.”

Act 2: The Supers

Ordinary folk who can’t carry a tune can appear onstage in operas such as “Aida”--if they can carry a spear.

Extras, known as “supernumeraries” or “supers,” are employed by opera companies for non-singing roles. Most often, they appear as soldiers, guards and popolo--townspeople. They carry flagons, swords or torches; serve drinks; or escort a declaiming tenor to a bench. Some supers joke that they are “living wallpaper” or “moving props” because they’re typically chosen not for their brilliant acting abilities but for their measurements. Opera companies look for people who can fit into the extravagant costumes they’ve obtained for their operas. If the Babylonian sandal fits, they wear it.

Nevertheless, supers take their roles very seriously.

“I think of myself as a dot in a Seurat painting,” says Ellen Szalinski, a super for 16 seasons with the Lyric Opera. “There’s nothing glamorous about being the third babushka behind the rock in the dark, but we’re needed.”

The San Francisco Opera has more than 700 supers (and their measurements) registered in its database. “In this city, we have a lot of men who like to get into costume and makeup,” says Albert Goodwyn, head of supers for the San Francisco Opera and a super himself for 17 years.

Though the Los Angeles Opera has only 130 supers registered, unlike other companies it boasts a great many applicants with extensive acting experience, says Bill Williams, associate production manager of the Los Angeles Opera. Some Los Angeles supers say they’re using their roles at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion--however small--to beef up their dramatic resumes.

“There are some truly great hams here,” says one Los Angeles Opera super who asked not to be identified. “I’ve seen people fight over lighted spots on the stage and others take out full-page ads . . . that said they were ‘appearing with Placido Domingo.’ ”

But at most companies, supering attracts people from all walks of life, united by their love of operatic drama. The loin-clothed slaves and drunken wenches you see onstage may very well be lawyers, accountants, software developers, architects and retired physicians in real life.

“It’s the best seat in the house,” says Lucas Rebston, a San Francisco Opera super who says he’s witnessed the end of the world four times while playing a soldier in “Gotterdammerung.”

“It’s the easiest way to get into theater,” Williams adds.

Certainly, supers aren’t in it for the pay. Excluding the Met, opera companies tend to offer only token remuneration to their dedicated guards, slaves, gypsies and mariners. At San Francisco Opera, supers receive $3 for rehearsals and $6 for dress rehearsals and performances. At the Lyric, supers get $10 per “service.” The Lyric’s lightwalkers, who stand in for principal singers during technical rehearsals, can earn $4 an hour.

Los Angeles Opera compensates its supers better than average, however--about $7 an hour for rehearsals and $40 a show. Those supers who provide extra skills--such as dance teacher Donna Gale, who played an 8 1/2-foot-tall goose in “The Fantastic Mr. Fox,” and Worthie Meachum, a 270-pound female impersonator who donned a long blond wig and baby doll outfit for Zefferelli’s interpretation of “Pagliacci”--may receive more.

At the Met, a hearty corps of 10 to 12 supers receive between $20,000 and $25,000 for each season’s work, says super Richard Goldstein, 43, who has performed with the Met since he was 10 years old. Another 25 to 30 Met supers are paid by performance, about $20 an act, he says.

What talents are de rigueur?

“Reliability,” says Mark Burstein, a Bechtel programmer who’s supered with the San Francisco Opera since 1991. “You can’t miss a performance. You can’t show up late. And you can’t show up drunk.”

No-nos for supers also include singing along with the chorus (“We glare sternly at them,” Goldstein says) and attempting to seduce visiting soloists. (“You’d be surprised,” says a Los Angeles opera super, “but it’s been tried.”)

A super may be at his best when he “saves” an operatic moment. Occasionally, performers miss their cues, forget lines, drop props, fall or even faint. A quick-thinking super can prevent a scene from becoming a disaster by acting fast. Stories abound about unsung heroes who have whispered prompts, rescued props and even held up colleagues who sprained their ankles.

Many years ago, Goldstein appeared in a Met performance of “Tosca,” which starred the venerated soprano Renata Tebaldi. As the opera drew to its close, Tebaldi was supposed to leap to her “death” from a platform onto a cushion below. But she froze. She couldn’t see the cushion, so she refused to jump.

Gentlemen all, the Met supers did what Puccini would have wanted. They pushed her.

“Tosca didn’t commit suicide that night,” Goldstein mock-archly says. “She was murdered.”

Act 3: Finale

Choristers and supers alike say they’ve formed lasting friendships in their companies. A few have fallen in love, gotten married and raised children together.

Sarah Bryan Miller, a mezzo soprano who spent 21 years as a chorister with the Lyric Opera until becoming a music critic with the St. Louis Post Dispatch, met her husband-to-be while in the chorus. He was supering with her company. But, Miller says, working with her beloved nearby proved distracting.

“Try doing the orgy in ‘Samson and Delilah’ while your husband is standing over you with a torch,” she says. “It takes all the fun out of it.”

Sometimes there are tearful moments for opera casts, as when a much-loved singer makes her farewell performance, or when a colleague takes ill or dies. Last week, a Lyric Opera super passed away. Some of his colleagues traveled four hours round-trip to attend his memorial service.

After Viennese soprano Leonie Rysanek sung her final role at the Met in January 1996, many in the company were distraught. She’d been singing there for 37 years and would be dearly missed. “It’s like losing a little part of your life,” Goldstein says.

“You wouldn’t think of someplace like the Met as being like family, but it’s true,” he continues. “During the waiting [before being called onstage], people sit together, chat, play card games or, during long gaps, have a meal together.

“That’s when the company really gets to know itself. And the friendships extend outside the theater. Sure, by the end of the season, people can get edgy, but as the summer [vacation] wears on, we start missing each other again.”

Until the next season begins, that is. Then, for these unsung heroes who deserve a “Bravissimo!” for their labors and courage, the magic begins anew.