Pictured at right and below is a smiling Richard Leech, who plays the eponymous role in Pagliacci. As Canio, he is on one hand a loving husband who adores his wife, and on the other hand he is murderously jealous. As the clown Pagliacci in the Commedia dell'Arte troupe he laughs—yet in real life as Canio he cries. He is both terrifying and pitiable, fierce and vulnerable, introspective and emotive. As a caricature of a character, we may find his emotions funny or evocative, but the persona of Canio is neverthless human—and as such, serves as a mirror for what we all may feel. Penned in the early days of wooden track roller coasters (American roller coasters date from the 1880's, and European Coasters date somewhat earlier), the emotional extremes displayed by Canio, Nedda, and Tonio are as gut-wrenching as the modern Steel Phantom at Kennywood. Andrew Lloyd Weber's Phantom of the Opera is not a roller coaster, does not provide an emotional roller coaster, and is merely a musical about opera, but Pagliacci prominantly features a steel dagger. La analogia è finita.

Canio/Pagliacci must show a multitude of faces in this opera, reflecting the myriad emotions that he feels. I watched Richard Leech as he proceeded through a collection of emotions, and rather than try to describe them, I thought it would just be better to show you...

And all of this without the murders at the end of Act II! What is fascinating to me is that beneath the powerful emotional subtext of this opera, we are told that everything is normal. Regardless of the ups and downs of their personal lives, the show must go on! Canio tells us that actors have feelings, too. Then he tells us that the discord we see in the troupe's players is a mere sham, that everything is really hunky-dory. And because the villagers would rather be fooled than see reality, they believe him—because theatre is all about a willful suspension of disbelief. But what is really interesting is that regardless of this roller coaster of emotion, the bright smiles and the menacing glowers, the actors feelings as people and the actors feelings as players, we are reminded of the happy-happy nature of the Commedia troupe.

Janus is the two-faced god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings, and endings in Roman mythology. In Pagliacci we only see one of Janus' faces—we see the end of the troupe (although we can easily imagine how things began). The twinned masks of comedy and tragedy, symbols of the theatre, are also called Janus masks, and unlike these masks, both sides of Pagliacci's drum are the same—smiling, serene, reassuring. The tragicomedic masks are not on the players outwards faces, but in the dichotomy of the real and the acted. The comic face is worn by the parts the actors portray, while tragic face is worn by the actors themselves. Canio and Nedda are two-faced hypocrites (and for you language buffs, the word hypocrite derives from the Greek word hupokrites for "stage-player" or "actor"). The villagers bear the full brunt of this hypocracy—they come to the Commedia expecting a comedy, but witness a tragedy instead.

Fasten your seat belts, and keep your hands inside the car at all times. It's gonna be one heckuva ride!

"Rent, build, or buy?" When you are contemplating a new domicile, that's a question you have to ask yourself. But if you are Pittsburgh Opera, that is also the question that you ask regarding costumes and props. On Tuesday, I visited the costume shop while the children's choristers were being fitted for their regalia, and although I can't show you pictures of the kids (legal issues regarding minors and photographic release forms), I can show you the costume shop itself!

More shoes than Imelda Marcos! More hats than John B. Stetson! More shirts than... a lot of people! When you walk down to the basement of the Pittsburgh Opera building (it seems that artists always live in basements or garrets), that's what you see. Rows and rows of everything clothing.

When Pittsburgh Opera puts on a piece, the set and props can be rented from another company or built from scratch. The latter is a rather expensive proposition (unless it can be rented to other companies), so the set is often rented (and if you recall my piece on Tosca Backstage, you'll also remember that famous singers have imbued their energy into the props). Depending on the size of the cast and the complexity and period of the dress, costumes can be rented, sewn from scratch (again, an expensive proposition), or bought. It turns out that shoes are not part of the costumes that travel with the set, so Pittsburgh Opera owns a lot of shoes. The kingly garb that enrobed Michael Hendrick in Ariadne auf Naxos was rented, but because the kids in the children's chorus are difficult to fit, the costumers spent some time at the local thrift shops finding clothing that looked right and could be taken in. When you can't rent, you can buy (and at discount prices)!

And because costumes have to be taken in or let out, hemmed, cuffed, or trimmed, the costumers have a myriad of machines and threads in just about every color known to man. There are boxes of ribbons, bows, buttons—sometimes they are added to a costume, sometimes they are removed—and the costumers pay attention to detail. At 14 years of age, one young lady chorister would have been (in the time Pagliacci was penned) of marriagable age. Consequently, her parents would have dressed her as a young lady. But at that young age, she would still be playing with her friends—so if you see her socks drooping around her ankles, it is to firm up this dichotomy. Other children are portrayed as outgrowing their clothes, or wearing over-large hand-me-downs from their elder siblings. All of this contributes to the vitality of the scenes. Even if you don't know how the set and costuming is put together, your subconscious still registers these small clues, and makes the scene seem all that much more real.

So, whence the title for this piece? In addition to playing rock'n'roll, local radio station WDVE often features comedy bits. One of these was called "Pants an'at", and featured a particular Pittsburghese turn of phrase: an'at (a contraction for "and that" for those unfamiliar with it). Yinz Know Yinzes from Picksburgh an' 'at When... Yinz finish all yinzes sentences with the words an' 'at. It is such a uniquely Pittsburghean turn of phrase that we even have a "country code" sticker for Pittsburgh. Originally designed for identifying the coutry of origin for European license plates, these oval stickers had two letters on them: NL for the Netherlands, DE for Germany (Deutchland), DK for Denmark, etc. Of course, there is an ISO standard defining all the 2-letter codes (and these same codes are used for international internet addresses). But in the US (the ISO 3166-1-alpha-2 code element for United States), the stickers achieved cult status. You'll see OBX (for North Carolina's Outer Banks), FDNY (honoring the New York Fire Department), and PGH, PIT, and N@ (for sweet home Pittsburgh).

Now to digress from my digression, if you fly a lot, you recognized that "PIT" is also the FAA and IATA 3-letter airport code for Pittsburgh. But if you're a geek like me you'll also know that every airport has a code. Monroeville Airport is 4G0 (did you know that Monroeville even had an airport?), Finleyville is G05, and Bandel Airport in Eighty Four is 22D. Much though it'd make a great airport code, the registered codes are purely alphanumeric, so N@ remains a purely local joke.

Pittsburgh Opera also has a wig-master. Sometimes the wigs are obvious (the judge in Cosi fan Tutte), but very often the flowing locks sported by the singers are the results of the wig-masters craft. They look completely natural, and only after the performance have I realized that the singer was not as flaxen-haired as I had supposed. Of course, in Pagliacci, some of the wigs are rather comical. Clowns are supposed to have bright orange hair...

And of course, everything in the costume shop will eventually need to be cleaned! Consequently, there is a dizzying array of cleaning products available to the costumers. But there is also dye (in case the myriad colors of thread, ribbon, and fabric are insufficient), spot remover, fixatives, swabs, daubers, and things I didn't recognize!

Mark Twain said that "Clothes make the man" (although most people forget the second half of the quote). And the costume shop makes the clothes.

I was an extra in George Romero's 1978 film Dawn of the Dead. At 1:30am on the day of shooting, I piled a few of my friends into my rattletrap 1964 Dodge Polara (the one with the push-button transmission) and drove out to the Monroeville Mall, where we were slathered with gray makeup and told to "act like a bunch of zombies". We were shown the winding route that the tractor-trailer would follow through the nearly empty parking lot as it careened towards the mall. We were then given the direction that we were all supposed, with lurching stride and arms outthrust, to look like perambulating dead people. Since shooting started at 8am and we hadn't slept at all since the 2am cattle-call, the "look like a zombie" part was easy. Improvising a drunkards walk was not hard for some, since alchohol had also figured prominantly in their late-night nutrition. But what came as somewhat of a shock to me, at least, was looking up from my caffeine-free torpor to see that the tractor-trailer was not on its assigned course, but rather was about to magically transform me from a play-acting dead person into the real thing. Not wishing to permanently fill the role of corpse, I acted with un-zombie-like aplomb and put on a burst of very scared human speed. In acting terms, I "improvised".

Opera has no "extras", they have supernumeraries (or "supers" for short). There are likewise no "understudies"—that term, I was told, is left for the "legitimate theatre". Opera therefore has "covers". And instead of "walk-ons", "bit parts", and other (mildly perjortative) terms, opera has a chorus—a non-starring, but nevertheless essential vocal part. For the Commedia dell'arte scene in Pagliacci, the choristers fill the role of the villagers come to see the production put on by Canio, Nedda, Tonio, and Beppo. Not counting the dozen or so children, there are about 40 choristers, and last night was the chorister staging.

It will probably come as no surprise that the choristers are a lot better prepared than the extras I worked with in Dawn of the Dead. Here, they all know their parts, so when the accompianist began playing, I was treated to 40 voices singing full-throatedly on key and in time. But that was expected, given what I saw in how the principal singers had prepared. What was really interesting was the staging.

First, the stage director places every person in their final position on stage. There is some small amount of shuffling based on voice part (so that there is not, for example, a preponderance of sopranos in one place), and then the director gives every singer their "motivation". You two are sisters, you are upset that these people have sat in front of you, you folks are friends with this group, etc. Then each singer is given a starting location offstage and a "trajectory" (and in some cases, instructions to carry their seats or benches from offstage). Essentially, the director works the chorus through their roles in reverse. A quick run-through is done to see how it looks, some small adjustments are made, and then intermediate actions are dictated. You three run out to get the best seats. You two stop along the way to chat with your friends. You argue with the commedia actors to get the show started, and you four jump in for support...

And all of this is done while singing their part, and listening for cues. And some of those cues are of course given by the in-the-wings stage-managers, who coordinate entrances with balletic precision. I learned that the stage-managers also have to be able to read music, since they take their cues directly from the score. Because this was only a staging rehearsal, the principal singers were not in attendance. So at times Maestro Buckley would fill in for them, singing their parts quite creditably! This in additition to conducting the music and giving cues.

Of course, not every action of the chorus is dictated by the director—there is still some room for improvisation, but by and large the entire chorus is scripted from entrance to exit. The net result is that any scene with the choristers quite frankly looks a lot more "alive" than Dawn of the Dead. I suppose that since Pagliacci concludes with only three corpses (while George Romero's film started with scores of them) this is only logical, but it is really quite remarkable to see the care with which the start of this scene is tended. When I have seen the chorus in action in other operas (like the party scene in La Traviata, the church in Tosca, or the village in Rigoletto), I marvelled at how vivid, vital and realistic the scene looked. Now I know why!

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.

The old adage "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" must be true of opera, since it is certainly oft imitated in parody. I've spoken of What's Opera Doc (featuring music from Wagner's Ring), A Long-Haired Hare (with a tenor portrayed by opera singer Nicolai Shutrov), The Rabbit of Seville, and all of which feature opera as their main themes. Cartoons (both animated and static) abound with operatic references. But one of my favorite flattering imitations is a parody of Pagliacci by Lindley Armstrong "Spike" Jones, loosely (okay, very loosely) based on the tune "Vesti la giuba" (or "invest in a tuba", below) from the opera, except for the part where its less loosely based on the tune "Sabre Dance" by Kachaturian. It features the voices of Homer and Jethro, the "thinking man's hillbillies".

Since rehearsals for Pagliacci begin in a week and a half, I thought I would share the lyrics (and an MP3, please buy the album if you like it) of this fabulous parody. I'll get more serious hah! on my next post...

Pal-yat-chee

When we was in the city, we was wonderin' where to go.
The sign spelled out "Pagliacci" up in lights above a show.
We thought 'twould be a Western, 'til the stage lit up with light,
And ninety-seven people sung without a horse in sight!
We couldn't understand 'em 'cause spoke a furr'in tongue,
But we can give you some idea of what we think they sung...

Ridi, Pagliacio!! Sul tu'amore infranto

All at once there's a fat guy in a clown suit.
T'ain't Haller-ween, that's fer shore.
Then this here feller, this Punchy Neller,
Begins to beller – Like we all was deef.

Aaaahh ha haa haa haa haa

That was Pal-yat-chee, and he sung:

Invest in a tuba, and sum'pin' or other 'bout Cuba.
He sung about a lady, who weighed two-hunderd and eighty!
When she takes a powder, he just starts chirpin' louder,
And he don't do a gol' darn thing, 'cept to stand up there and sing.

When we listen to Pal-yat-chee,
We get itchy and scratchy.
This sure is top corn,
So we go and buy some popcorn;
We hate to go back,
But we can't get our dough back,
Ain't no use complainin'
'Cause outside it's a-rainin'.

Seven hours later,
We're still in the durn theater.
Takin' turns a-nappin'
Waitin' for somethin' to happen.

Pal-yat-chee, he ain't hurryin'
But the folks on stage are flurryin'
And it sounds like Ketchy-tur-eean's Sabre Dance.

Then ol' Pal-yat-chee finds the guy he seekin' cheek to cheekin' with his wife,
He grabs the knife and stabs the louse who stole his spouse,
And then he stabs the lady and himself.
T'ain't very sanitary.
They all collapse, but ol' Pal-yat-chee sets up,
Then he gets up singin' "I am dyin', I am dyin', I am dyin''"
We start cryin', 'cause, to tell the truth, we're dyin', too.

As the footlights fade out,
We see Pal-yat-chee laid out,
But the dagger never caused it.
Pal-tay-chee was plumb exhausted.

Ridi, Pagliacco! Sul tu'amore in....

Rehearsals for Pagliacci start on September 25. Please "stay tuned", as I will be writing and photographing more of the backstage and onstage process for this and the remainder of the season's operas!