It has remained a constant source of amazement to me, that no-one, on for example the National Geographic channel, has ever put forward a theory of evolution of a far from extinct animal – a beast who commands constant attention and displays rather unusual and most definitely unnatural behavioural traits. Characteristics of this complex creature are that it is often overweight, normally oversensitive, usually over-hyped, sometimes overpaid and intensely paranoid. It is one of the few species that does not necessarily demand succession, possibly because of it’s solitary existence, but more likely due to the fact that the mould is often difficult to repeat. I am of course talking about ‘The Tenor’, and I would like to attempt to offer a short study of tenor behaviour, and in so doing, disclose to the world my ‘Theory of Tenor Evolution’.
The word ‘tenor’ comes from the Latin ‘tenere’, meaning ‘to hold’, as in the Middle Ages the tenor was the voice responsible for holding the melody, and in characteristic tenor behaviour, he has never let go of it since. In fact, the tenor took his etymological roots very literally and has ‘held’ onto many other things too – his high notes at the ends of phrases, his high notes at the start and middle of phrases, his leading ladies, his chorus ladies, his applause, his endless curtain calls, his good reviews, his self-absorbed conversations about his flawless technique and seamless ‘passaggio’ into the upper register, and on many occasions the tenor has held onto the entire saturated fat content of all the food he wolfs down after the final curtain. From the Middle Ages into the Baroque and Classical eras, the tenor voice was very different to the one we now know and love, starting out as a sort of developed ‘falsetto’, until the early 19th century when the tenor realised how exciting it was to employ some chest in the voice. Rossini was famously appalled when his leading tenor in “William Tell” unleashed a full-throated Top C.
In the time of Monteverdi, and indeed later with Rossini, tenors were sometimes seen travelling in packs of three, a behavioural characteristic which seems to be repeating itself of late, but by the late 19th century the tenor had once again become a rather solitary creature. With the use of a tenorscope, we observe the tenor to be most at home when dwelling up high, and definitely most comfortable in a habitat of adoration and adulation, at times needing little more than a resonant room with a mirror. By the mid-19th century the tenor had become the hero, the love interest, the man with the best tunes, show-stopping arias and most sustained high notes, as well as becoming the butt of jokes by conductors and supposed colleagues (normally baritones, and other even less important cast-members). Wagner once declared that ‘tenors have head notes where people normally have brains’. Hans von Bulow claimed that ‘a tenor is not a man, but a disease’. Is it then any small wonder that the tenor can often end up, outside his usual habitat looking in, a jibbering wreck wallowing alone in his insecurities and paranoias, reciting a monologue over and over which recounts the glories of his career, and the splendour of his once-much-talked-about instrument.
The late Franco Corelli used to get up at 3 in the morning just to make sure his voice was still working (I’m sure those famous pink poodles of his were not at all impressed), a renowned Spanish tenor talks of vomiting in the wings before he goes on stage, and most tenors admit to a special diet and a ‘no-talking’ rule on the day of a performance. The tenor generally boasts a dramatically inflated ego. The amount of times I have been forced to endure, truly endure, one-sided conversations with fellow tenors as they listed their achievements, awards and roles, and as they discussed the merits of their vocal mechanism.
But what of the demise of some of our great tenor idols? Excessive drinking contributed to the death of my all-time hero Jussi Björling, Caruso had pleurasy and famously coughed up blood on stage in New York, Fritz Wunderlich was killed under mysterious circumstances involving Russian Roulette in a remote country lodge, and the constantly size-fluctuating Mario Lanza dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of only 38, his death still shrouded in a Mafia-style cloud of controversy. Even our own Count John McCormack died too young.
So is it any wonder that this sensitive creature is the butt of the largest selection of light-bulb jokes? We tenors have been given a lot of responsibility in this world to carry on our suitably stocky shoulders. It’s not easy having to ping out the top line in every operatic ensemble, you know. Our worth in life all hangs on whether we have a Bb or a C in our voice, or even a D – which some of us can offer on a good day with the wind behind us. But once these notes are gone, well, let’s face it, what worth have we anymore, as we lie alone piled up on the used-larynx heap outside the stage door, always aware that in the wings young bucks are lurking, challenging for top dog position? Is it any wonder that there has been a recurring trend for these insecure creatures to once again travel in packs of three? Spare a thought for us as we are no longer lounging in our natural habitat of adoration and adulation – we have feelings too – Planet Tenor is not always a bed of roses.
