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Black Water by Jeremy Beck

20/2/2012

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So this is where I get all earnest on you. Please forgive me. But sometimes it is only through Art that victims have their stories heard. Sometimes the telling and retelling of their story is the only justice they will receive. This is one of those stories, and the themes are as old as time. I feel a sense of responsibility towards this piece which is not something I have experienced before.....

In 1969, the dead body of a young woman, Mary Jo Kopechne, was discovered inside an overturned car in a channel on Chappaquiddick Island, Massachusetts.  The car belonged to Senator Edward M. “Ted” Kennedy, who did not report the late-night incident to police authorities until the following morning.

After the discovery, Kopechne’s body was recovered from the submerged car and Kennedy gave a statement to police saying that during the previous night, she was his passenger when he took a wrong turn and accidentally drove his car off a bridge and into the water.  After pleading guilty to a charge of leaving the scene of an accident after causing injury, Kennedy received a sentence of two months in jail, which was suspended. The incident became a national scandal, and may have influenced Kennedy’s decision not to campaign for President of the United States in 1972 and 1976.

John Farrar, the diver who recovered Kopechne's body and captain of the Edgartown Fire Rescue unit, asserted that Kopechne did not die from the vehicle overturn or from drowning, but rather from suffocation, based upon the posture in which he found the body and its position relative to the area of an ultimate air pocket in the overturned vehicle. Farrar also asserted that Kopechne would likely have survived had a more timely attempt at rescue been conducted. Farrar located Kopechne's body in the well of the backseat of the overturned submerged car. Rigor mortis was apparent and her hands were clasping the backseat and her face was turned upward. Farrar testified at the Inquest:

It looked as if she were holding herself up to get a last breath of air. It was a consciously assumed position. ... She didn't drown. She died of suffocation in her own air void. It took her at least three or four hours to die. I could have had her out of that car twenty-five minutes after I got the call. But he [Ted Kennedy] didn't call.


     - diver John Farrar,  Inquest into the Death of Mary Jo Kopechne, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Edgartown           
                District Court. New York: EVR Productions, 1970.

"Black Water" by Joyce Carol Oates is a slightly-veiled fictional account of these events.  Respected American composer Jeremy Beck completed this work in 1994, writing and shaping the libretto himself from her text.  This extended composition for soprano and piano is not a song-cycle per se, but is closer in its form to that of a monodrama, with the soprano and the pianist assuming multiple roles and states of mind (following the variety of levels created by Oates). 

I begin rehearsals this Thursday for shows with Co-Opera in the Adelaide Fringe Festival, Melbourne, Ballarat, Canberra and Sydney. More details on the "Events" page.

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"Berrima Smalls" Art Song Concert

12/2/2012

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This entry is really a short homage to teachers. All kinds of teachers, but singing teachers in particular.

The lovely Ella and I did a gorgeous art song recital in Berrima yesterday afternoon, as part of the Berrima Smalls concert programme. The venue is a prettily rustic little village hall, lovingly restored and bedecked with quilts, cushions and flowers by the local music community. Despite the crazy weather we had a good turn out, and afterwards, a home-made afternoon tea!

But the amazing part for me was seeing my first singing teacher again after many years of being out of contact. She taught me whilst I was at high-school, but we fell out of contact when I was 18, at the point when I gave up singing completely. Last year, she heard a broadcast on the radio of me singing with the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs, and emailed them to see if it was the same Karen Fitz-Gibbon whom she had taught.

I'd really been too busy to think much on it before the time came to travel to Berrima, other than to be pleased about the pending reunion. Then, over breakfast, the friends whom I'd stayed with the night before were entertained by a sudden mild panic of embarrassment that descended upon me when I looked back on the things this woman had endured at my hands: not practising, forgetting my music, forgetting sometimes that I even had a lesson, turning up to the lesson and crying. Nothing truly evil, of course (as if I'd share that, hahahah!) but the sort of irritating, demoralising behaviour that I have heard my Uni friends who teach lament over many a time.

Well, it was wonderful seeing her again. Really, really special. And to all the amazing teachers out there, not just music teachers but teachers of all kinds, I'd like to say: these students who are rubbish and do not treat the knowledge that you offer them with the respect it deserves, and who do not seem as passionate about their lessons as you would like....don't let it get you down. Sometimes, it just takes a very long time for seeds to grow.

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"Handwritten in Song" at the National Library of Australia

4/2/2012

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My fabulous Lied-Duo partner, Ella Luhtasaari, and I had the most wonderful time at the National Library last night, performing a showcase of the vocal music in the "Handwritten" exhibition of manuscripts. I'd spent some fair chunks of time at the Library during my Honours year at ANU, even dragging Ella into the soundproofed recording rooms in the Oral History department to bash through piles of music that had been buried in the Archives in search of gems for my Honours project (Yes, some eyebrow conversations as a result of that. We came across some very interesting songs that were literally too racist and blood-thirsty to want to risk performing them, even as historical interest pieces. Some giggling ensued). I even managed once - I have no idea how - to talk somebody into taking me into the archive stacks where they showed me original scores that belonged to Dame Nellie Melba - her red pencil scrawls are still in the margins.

And the best anecdote I've heard from staff is about what they need to lock away in the strong rooms each night. Obviously the library has priceless treasures, like Captain Cook's diary, which stay there all the time. But it is also a copyright library, and as such, contains a copy of every publication of everything in the country, ever. Well, nearly. Each night they lock up the magazines that are most regularly stolen. Hilariously, this comprises: porn magazines, magazines about cake baking and magazines about cat grooming. Well, Canberra has its quirks, ladies and gentlemen.

Yup. Safe to say I love that library. Well, I have a thing about books generally, and especially old books, so it was always going to be love....
I've spent hours in the cafe there, eating their muffins and coaxing a thesis out of my laptop while kaleidoscopes of coloured light from the funky stained-glass windows spilled down on the white marble of the foyer. A high-ceilinged foyer that I sometimes wanted to test the acoustic of. Well, well, well.

It was as good as I'd hoped. And there was some crying. Not by me, by the audience. But in a good way. Not because I hurt them or anything.

Afterwards the guests were served with champagne as we all had a 'private' viewing (90 people in one room is not private) of the exhibition itself. I may have been slightly overwrought from an hour of German poetry, but I just wanted to lie down on the ground and stay there and never leave the room. There was an ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT of Dante's The Divine Comedy from 1347!!! So. Much. Awesome.

Probably the most poignant moment, though, was standing in front of the scores for Act II and III of Mozart's "Le Nozze di Figaro", which has been such a massive part of my life for the last year, having done 40 performances of it in five different states. Because I was one of the two people in the room whom everyone seemed to be quite pleased with at that point, I went ahead and put my grubby little paws on the protective case, smearing my longing, fingerprinty wonder all over the glass. And the only words in my head were, "Thank you". (OK now I think about it, "Whoah" probably crept in there too.)

For more information on the exhibition, please go to http://www.nla.gov.au/exhibitions/handwritten

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    Author

    ____ In 2005 I found myself in London, broke, constantly sick, and working in a job I hated. I had dropped out of Uni and run away from Australia years earlier, and had had a mind-boggling succession of actually-I'm-not-going-to-share-them-on-a-professional website adventures. But I looked up one day and realised I really wasn't happy with my life. "So if you're going to change things," I asked myself, "what is the dearest dream you once had? What is it worth turning everything around for?"

    I had chronic pain from (unbeknownst to me) dislocated bones; both my lungs and my throat were compromised. I smoked a pack a day. I hadn't worn an evening gown since my Year 12 formal and couldn't really walk in heels. I didn't read music, and had never sung an aria, nor studied music at school. But I knew what I wanted: I wanted to serve the muse. Bit mad, really.

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