Genius of a Performing Arts High

Chapter 1: As if Singing 1

There’s a word called passaggio.

Passaggio.

Imagining Italy helps when pronouncing this word.

The common image that pops up in the head when you think of Italian men. A buttery feel as if smothered with butter, a nasal voice – that kind of image. With that in mind, let’s put the emphasis on the ‘ssa’ part. The air strongly escaped through the gum.

PPa-ssa-ggio.

Hmm… a rare word indeed. How rare, well, most people would never hear it in their lives and even I never had, before starting opera.

The thing called opera – classic music – is like that.

As if it’s from a different world, it overflows with jargons only they know of. Maschera, legato, and appoggio etc. Why let go of the good old Korean and use these unusual Italian words?

…Going back to the topic, what is that passaggio thing?

The meaning is simple.

The homeland of opera singing, Italy. It’s a word from that Italy, and its literal meaning is a road or way.

‘Road…’

At a glimpse, it sounds out of place.

What road, when singing?

But as I continued music and studied sound, I came to a realisation

That there was no better expression than ‘road’.

From deep inside my bones.

“Oi. Are you advertising that you are making high notes? Huh? ‘I’m gonna go up now~ going down now~’ like that? Keep the timbre constant! Absolutely constant! Make it impossible to tell the difference between high and low notes!”

That’s what my teacher had said from the first lesson.

“Walk straight, in a straight line. Imagine there’s a straight road up a mountain and you a hiker following that trail.”

“Yes…”

“Imagine going left and right, climbing in a zigzag – how unsightly is that? It’s the same. As if following a straight trail from low to high note, keep your ringing and colour constant. You must climb straight without wobbling to reach the top.”

“…”

I actually couldn’t understand the teacher’s words back then.

I mean, obviously there’s going to be a difference when hitting a high note, no? How would I make it sound like a low note when I’m struggling with the climbing?

You’re saying, run like walking, scream as if whispering, or something like that?

Straight road my ass.

However, it was impossible to go against the teacher and I just listened and worked hard.

Whilst leaving the Arts High School as if being expelled, graduating a normal highschool, entering a university and into an ensemble, I repeated the teacher’s words in mind and continued training.

After all, that teacher was the only one who had been sincere in teaching me.

The change happened slowly but surely.

From A2 to B4, in other words, From 0 Octave A to 2 Octave B.

Even whilst climbing up and down 15 stages of the music scale, the timbre would be kept clear and constant. When I was making any note, I could add the desired colour and end any note changes delicately as if drawing a curve.

It felt like my eyes were opened.

That was… like a painter having control of the perfect tool

With the ability to fill any canvas with the desired colour and drawing.

A painter with the best brush.

After reaching that level around my 30s, I became a baritone singer with some fame under the belt and entered one of the best ensembles in Korea, the ‘Future Ensemble’.

“What level did you get, Mr. Yunjae?”

“Me? Level 2.”

“… Level 2?”

From a test carried straight after entering which gave a score out of levels 1 to 10, I got a Level 2 straight away.

Level 2.

It was one level under the best, Level 1. It was a great level considering my experience, but…

I wasn’t very content.

I mean, it felt like being treated like a domestic animal – a singing animal. To be happy just because I got rated as a special A-grade Korean Pig? My pride wasn’t that low.

Of course, having more money come in was good.

In any case, due to showing off the level straight after admission, and not reading the atmosphere, the relationship with the members of the ensemble became shallower. Not that I thought too much of it.

It was a life busy enough just singing.

“Mr. Yunjae is… quite amazing. It’s been a while since I saw someone capable of keeping the ringing going without shaking. But it’s just, can you sing a little bit softer and weaker? There’s a little bit of a dissonance. Yes. Just like that. Let’s do it one more time.”

What was even more annoying was the suppression unique to ensembles.

The atmosphere itself of ensembles was like that. You can’t stand out because it’s dozens of people singing together. Match everyone else, kill yourself and become the subtle background sound.

There were constant demands to get rid of my colour, as well as demands against my own singing.

Saying, ‘It’s annoying to hear one baritone stand out’.

So without colour or odour, and without any individuality, I had to cut away from my voice. It was a painful process to anyone who considered themselves a musician.

But the wicked thing about humans was that given one to two months, you could get accustomed to anything. When I came to things, I, who could harmonise perfectly like a machine, was created.

The problem was found later.

One day, when I was singing a solo part, I had been spitting out ridiculously apathetic sounds.

…I decided to leave the ensemble.

“You are going to leave?”

“Yes, I have decided already.”

“I see… I somehow saw that coming.”

It was very sudden but it seemed to have been predicted judging from my recent behaviours.

Just like that, even throwing away the seat of a permanent member which most opera singers dreamed of, I left Future Ensemble.

“Umm… Can I ask where you are planning to go next?”

“It’s not certain yet, but I want to try an audition at… Met.”

“Met! I hope you do well.”

Met.

New York Metropolitan Opera.

The place where the world’s best opera singers gather.

Could I succeed at that place I wonder?

In fact, I had confidence. Since learning and being caned from that teacher from Future Arts High School, I had never once heard anyone call me a bad singer.

I had confidence in my own singing and the pride of having been taught by a great teacher.

And after somehow getting in contact and visiting New York for an audition, the result I got was…

Fail.

I got on a plane and returned to Korea straight after receiving the results.

That day.

I was carrying my luggage from the airport by myself as the rain started to drizzle. I slowly scanned through the airport, but there were only busy people walking steadfast, and no friends to welcome me.

Well, I wasn’t expecting anything. A person who was crazily addicted to singing and only practising by himself – no-one would be friends with such a person.

Having ignored some messages after finding them annoying, it ended up with no-one contacting me at all.

‘You reap what you sow’ fitted me perfectly.

Like that, cutting off all relations I dedicated all my life to singing… and funnily failed a mere audition that easily.

“Huhuhu…”

I found myself laughable.

Wanting to sing, not wanting ensembles – leaving like that, talking big and failing without being able to do anything.

Suddenly, I thought of Don Quijote.

A scene of a fat man who had never worked out discussing nobility of the knights, charging at a windmill.

After that, I spent a few months isolated at home. Even then, there was no-one contacting me.

Ensemble, opera, musical – none of them.

I guess it was the result of me not forming relationships but… I just felt self-deprecation flow out. What was funnier, was that when the bank account started to empty out, I crawled out of the house.

Still had to eat and live so I had to sing. But still, I couldn’t re-enter the ensembles and operas who already knew my face. My worthless pride wouldn’t allow that.

Because that would be humiliating.

So I went around singing anywhere possible.

“Wow. You’re really too good at singing… Are you a singer?”

“Somewhat I guess…”

Wedding anthems, church songs, a song at a party, a vocal trainer… I even went to a temple to sing. A life of singing like a machine to bring food to the mouth.

It felt as if I had become a jukebox – a machine where a press of a button resulted in a song. That kind of soulless singing.

Without much practising, just going out for drinks and mucking around, living as a human jukebox.

One day

It was Christmas Eve.

A white Christmas Eve filled with falling snow.

Sparkling lights of blue and red, holograms would fill the sides of the roads, and churches would be filled with beautiful ringing sound as people gathered.

Happy night with smiles on everyone’s faces.

I went up to where the choirs sat in the church after having a massive drink with acquaintances.

– I thought you were singing at a church today? I am? And yet you’re drinking? It’s alright, it’s alright, how packed is my experience? Kuk kuk, crazy bastard. Drink up.

Such a conversation took place, I think.

Trying hard to clear the head from the spinning due to alcohol, I stood up when it was my turn to sing.

Hearing that I was formerly from an ensemble, the church gave me a solo part. Of course, there would be money so I accepted it readily.

Eyes of hundreds of believers filling the church gathered on me who slowly walked up. But I was drunk enough to not even realise that.

‘Ah freakin… I wanna go home.’

While having such thoughts, I habitually opened the score. The title immediately entered the eye.

Holy Night. Cantique de Noel.

It was a song inside my repertory. It was a famous Christmas song after all. Opera and Christianity were hard to separate and thus was a song already mastered. As the body remembered, I opened my mouth. I couldn’t even feel what words were coming out of my mouth but… the trained body was faithful.

Even the forgotten tone and sound was immediately brought forth after receiving the score.

“O night. This holy night.”

Yes, it was somewhere along these lines. A holy song celebrating the birth of Jesus. I bellowed the words of that song drunk. Gazing at the hundreds of silent believers focused on me with dizzy eyes, I acted out an experienced opera singer.

It wasn’t hard.

I had a body type where it was hard to tell whether I was drunk or not. And besides, although I wasn’t a protestant, I had been a catholic so mimicking a believer was simple.

The climax.

I read the score, as is, like a machine. FF? You mean scream real hard right? Judging from how the bean sprout is hanging high up, it is a pretty high note.

It was not a problem. I just had to close the vocal chord, increase the subglottal pressure, widen the resonating chamber inside the mouth and amplify. That alone was enough for the air to have the intense pressure needed to vibrate the church.

“This night–!”

At an instant, I emptied the lungs of all breath and closed the mouth.

Silence.

The music faded and the silent church was soon filled with a loud clapping sound and after staring at that scene with dead-fish eyes, I returned back to my seat.

‘My part’s finished… Can I just go home?’

Letting go of everything in my mind, the time passed steadily and soon the worship was over.

I casually wore the jacket and faced outside when a little shadow entered my eyes. When I subconsciously turned my eyes there, there was an old lady slowly approaching.

An old lady with evidence of the passing of time apparent.

A rough red scarf. A white piece of cloth enveloping the lifeless hair. Hands full of wrinkles.

Raising those shivering hands, she firmly grabbed my arms and while I was surprised, the old lady slowly looked up.

Her eyeballs covered with white coating could be seen. The old lady stared straight at me with those eyes and smiled happily.

“Sir your hymn… it was really… really good. Thank you… I feel very… very blessed.”

Even after looking around carefully, there was no-one next to her – there was only the old lady holding a cane with shivering arms.

Christmas Eve. On that night when the church’s greatest festival is happening, this old lady who had trouble walking was standing by herself… My heart was heavy after guessing the rough situation.

I was about to open my mouth but decided against it. I just closed my eyes and lowered the head. That was the only reply I could show.

If I opened my mouth, the smell of alcohol would naturally escape.

To a person who had liked the song of a pathetic person like me… I couldn’t possibly tell her that it was a song sung half-heartedly after drinking.

The old lady who had been grabbing my hands with her quivering hands slowly returned back home after saying goodbye several times, slowly carrying herself with her cane.

I who was staring at that back

Was enveloped by the desire to throw up.

With a stern face, I opened the church door and left. The cold December wind fluttered the clothes, as the severe downfall of snow reflected the lights from the holograms and shined. From within the snowfall, I looked around but no matter where my eyes faced, I could not find where that old lady had gone.

After a while of staring at the passersby.

I just walked.

The slow strides soon turned to fast paces and finally broke into a sprint.

The bright background melted away and disappeared. The road turned dark after running for a bit and my face exposed to the cold wind felt like it could be separated.

“Haa… haa…”

The body not used to exercise screamed out, and the toes were freezing as if the snow had entered the shoes. The stomach ruined by the alcohol forced the acid upward.

“Ahhhh…”

It feels like something was boiling within – a hot something. The feelings that had been sedimented black were blazing red with fire. The sound exploded out without me holding it in.

“Aahhhhh!”

Slip, the foot slid on the ice. The foot that had kicked the ground flew up reaching the sky and the whole body tilted backward.

Kung. The back of the head smashed the ground just like that.

“Ah!”

The mind started to blank out from the concussion.

The cold ice under the body felt distant and just like that, with arms wide open, I lied down.

‘It’s surprisingly comfortable.’

Through the dizzy eyes, the snow falling out of the sky could be seen. Now that I think about it, it has been a while since I looked up at the sky.

When I stared quietly, I could see clouds filling the night sky, as well as stars shining through ever so slightly. And suppressing the stars as well as the likes of clouds, a full moon annoyingly bright entered my eyes.

And under that moon, I saw a swinging bell on top of a church tower.

The vision slowly blurred away and the sound of the bell marking 12 o’clock was faintly heard.

Ring~

Ring~

It was Christmas.