When you walk into the stage entrance to the Benedum Center (it is an inconspicuous glass doorway on Liberty Avenue) and go up one flight of stairs, you find yourself in a small lobby overlooking the street below. Behind the one other substantial door is Studio A, a space that is slightly larger than the Benedum stage. There are mirrors on the long walls, and a barre for ballet practice. But today the heavy velvet curtains are all drawn, and the commedia stage is in the middle of the room. Tape lines on the floor delineate the locations of walls, props, and the edge of the stage, and a pair of stage doorways sit in their appropriate locations. A row of chairs sits at the front of the stage facing the audience, which today consists of Maestro Buckley, directors, stage managers, covers—and lucky me! The "on-stage" chairs are for the singers, and when I arrive at 10:50, they are all filled as assorted introductions are made.

The musical part of the rehearsal is scheduled to begin at 11:00, and at 10:59:30 artistic director Christopher Hahn makes some brief introductory remarks. Amazingly (though I suppose I should not be surprised at all, given the level of professionalism of the cast), by 11:00:20 Maestro Buckley signals the accompaniast, and they're off! Not even 30 seconds past the posted starting time, and the singers are rehearsing/performing their roles!

I am not sure what I expected to see or hear. Alas, movies have led us grossly astray when it comes to backstage life, and as I learn the real facts, I will be sharing them with you. By the time rehearsals in Pittsburgh begin, the singers have largely memorized their parts—the learning of notes and words have already been accomplished, what happens now is much more detailed. Of course, they each have music stands with the score in front of them, but it felt like the sheet was by now largely a guide. This is not to say that they each have their parts down cold, because each singer takes notes. And the conductor is not called "Maestro" for nothing. As a child, I always thought that they were there to wave their arms in time to the music, but the depth of knowledge—the mastery—that they must possess is awsome. Each note, each phrase, each beat, each breath that the singers take is under their scrutiny. The tempo is stretched here, metered there. Suggestions for adjustments to the color of a singer's voice, where to breathe, where even to put the consonant of a word—at the start or the end of a glissand—all these things are the conductor's purview. The orchestra plays the notes that are written, the singers sing the notes and words that Leoncavallo wrote a little over 100 years ago. But it is the maestro who drives the musical emotion—he is the feeling behind the metronome, the finger on the pulse of the music.

Within minutes, some of the singers are sweating. It is not hot in the room, but singing opera is hard work, and this degree of focus is taxing. Once the production reaches the stage, the singers emote to each other and to the audience. But here in Studio A, their focus is on the conductor, and he is the cynosure of all eyes, all voice, all feeling. I have rarely seen such active engagement. Pagliacci is an opera filled with love, anger, desire and jealousy. Although I grew up in an Italian neighborhood, I do not speak very much Italian—but emotion transcends language. There were times when I was not looking at the singers, but I could hear the raw emotion in their voices. It is chilling, really, to hear such pain and rage. To then look up, and see someone acting the role is no reassurance. Their faces mirror the emotion in their voices—if you smile while singing, people can hear your smile, and a snarl of rage or a grimace of pain translate equally well into a character of sound. Were I blind and unaware of the rehearsal, I might have cried out "peace!" to stop the fight. I know this smacks of hyperbole, but it is true... even the pianist is emoting, his fingers thrumming out the feelings, his body swaying to the pulse the maestro has set.

I am not sure what I expected to see or hear, and when I started writing this evening, I thought I would tell you about the story, about the singers, about the staging, and the story within the story. And in the days to come, I suppose I shall. But in digesting the day's events, I found myself overwhelmed by the emotion of the opera. Leoncavallo insisted that the plot of Pagliacci was based on a true story he had witnessed as a child. Many critics believe that Leoncavallo was simply trying to make the opera seem more realistic. I would argue that whatever the truth, he succeeded.