“Being on stage is an extreme existence.”

(2012_12_01)

photo: Nikolaus Karlinsky

Angelika Kirchschlager arrives punctually for our interview the morning after the concert. She is dressed casually, looks at me directly and friendly, and bears little or no resemblance to the diva we know from press photos. Early in the morning, with almost no makeup, she is still a beautiful woman, but much less striking. Above all, she gives the impression of being “down to earth,” as the New York Times said about her.

On November 30, 2012, Angelika Kirchschlager gave a recital at the Muziekgebouw aan ‘t IJ in Amsterdam (review to follow). The morning after the concert, I had an interview with her, which began with a few short questions.

Beautiful sound or expressiveness?

Expressiveness.

Some singers really love to vocalize, that is, to sing exercises, even more than studying songs. So: songs or vocalizations?

Songs, definitely.

Perhaps a superfluous question in your case, though not for all readers: song or opera?

Song.

Has it always been that way? Your career didn’t start that way.

Of course it started with opera; almost every career starts with opera. In Opera News, you tend to get noticed more for opera than for song.

But the love for song has always been there.

Yes, I always had teachers who let me sing songs. In addition, in Vienna—and perhaps even in all of Austria—you are so close to Schubert. I think it’s harder for an Italian to get close to Schubert.

Text or music?

Text. It’s the text that came before the song and was the basis for the composers.

Schubert or Mahler?

Schubert.

When it comes to tempo, you always have a choice within a certain range. Would you rather take the tempo a little faster or a little slower?

That’s difficult. (Thoughtfully): Better too slow than too fast. If I sing too fast, I can’t make up for it. But I can fill a tempo that is too slow with emotion and tension.

And when it really comes down to choosing the tempo as an interpretive decision?

The tempo is incredibly important. Every singer has their own tempo, their own physical processes and sensations, and the tempo depends on that. I can’t say whether slow or fast is better; it really depends on the song.

Do you prefer an audience that adores you but perhaps doesn’t know much, or an audience with a lot of knowledge but is quite critical?

My favorite audience is the one (thinks) that listens openly. Of course, it would be nice if people who know a lot could still listen openly. What I can’t deal with at all is a knowledgeable audience that is also critical! It’s good to be critical, but!

Biased, perhaps?

There are some in the audience who know better than I do, and I don’t like these know-it-alls at all. I love knowledgeable audiences. I think it’s wonderful when people know a lot about Schubert, music in general, or text composition.

But it’s always a shame when knowledge gets in the way of simply opening up and getting involved. These people are only depriving themselves of something. But there are plenty of others. I did a tour of Austria in June and most of the audience had never been to a recital before! It was an incredible experience for me that they just listened. I am someone who approaches people, and I want to give something. Singing is just a means of conveying something. It’s not about singing and what’s right and wrong. The most important thing is that the message gets across. That was a long answer to a short question. But it’s important (slightly ironic), it needs to be said.

One more question about the audience: Here in Holland, fewer and fewer people understand German, and in England and the US even fewer. Audiences in German-speaking countries have it easy because they understand much more of what is being sung. Then there are also the people who look at the libretto the whole time. What is your opinion on all of this?

Well, of course, it’s ideal when the audience speaks the language I’m singing in and when I sing so clearly that they don’t have to look at the program and can be there both acoustically and visually. But I also try to sing clearly for foreign-language audiences so that the content is clear and you can understand what’s happening even without the words. It’s a challenge to get the message across without people being struck by the connection between words and music. I’m still experimenting with that.

I believe that people in the audience like to see people on stage who are lively or who show themselves. And then I think it’s exciting to see someone who does something, who opens up and shows themselves, just like that. Like in the circus. Standing on stage is an extreme existence; it’s basically completely crazy. Someone stands there and seven hundred or more people are looking at them. They sit below and look at *one* person who is either singing or performing tricks, but always doing something that could go wrong. In opera, it’s also physically exhausting to sing such high notes, especially for tenors. You can only sing those notes by completely surrendering yourself. That’s a very intimate process in itself, and doing it in public really moves people, I think. It’s the same with singing songs or acting.

Do you feel like you are portraying yourself, or are you the girl by the walnut tree?

No, not at all. I think I’ve developed a distance there.

And what about the interpretation? When you look at the score or read the text?

Yes, of course! I actually have to be able to feel these emotions beforehand in order to convey them. It’s just interesting to read that out of these songs. I try to understand what the composer wanted. I have to implement what the composer wanted anyway and try to find it in myself as best I can. Often I don’t immediately understand why the composer did it that way.

That’s why I like songs so much, because a brilliant composer takes a brilliant poem and interprets it. I try to understand how the composer interpreted this poem. I did an evening where I sang the same texts by lots of different composers. “Der König von Thule” (The King of Thule), for example: it’s incredible when you compare Schubert and Liszt, they’re worlds apart.

Do you start with the text?

Yes, I read the text and then play the song through once and think about it.

So you think: Why is there a quarter note here, a rest there, etc.?

Yes, exactly, that’s very important. It’s also important to read the notes very carefully. I always do everything exactly as it’s written, because it usually turns out that the composer is much more brilliant than I am. He has much better ideas.

Yes, there are many places where even the most famous singers sing different notes than what is written. If you look closely, you can see, for example, a dot on a note that indicates emphasis, like an exclamation mark.

The composer is like a director. That’s actually the most exciting thing about the whole thing. I learn so much from it. I think to myself, “Aha, I hadn’t noticed that before.”

What is it like working with pianists? They often have their own opinions, which may not coincide with yours.

Yes, I often argue, and the longer I sing and the more experience I have, the more stubborn I become. I don’t like to give up my opinion. But thank God I have fantastic accompanists like Helmut Deutsch and Julius Drake, who stand up to me. Otherwise, I would probably run them over. They know me well enough to convince me. I’ve learned a lot from that. As in life, you have to talk about things and say certain things in order to find a solution. You also have to make compromises sometimes. It’s actually a workshop; we learn from each other all the time.

A pianist once told me, “If a singer lets the pianist determine the tempo, he’s already lost.”

You have to talk until everyone really accepts it. Until that happens, it won’t work. Then the pianist might play a little faster, but he won’t feel it. There are songs where I start arguing with Helmut Deutsch every time. However, I’ve learned that some songs are simply better when they’re slower and you have to stretch them out. So the tempo really has to be right. It’s a physical thing, like how your breath flows. If the tempo isn’t right, your breath can’t flow.

Now that we’re talking about breathing, do you do breathing exercises every day?

No, I don’t actually practice at all, ha ha.

You don’t like it?

No, I’m not a perfectionist at all. Yes, if I had an insane amount of time, then maybe I would practice. There are more important things in life.

There are singers who practice two or three hours every day.

Well, I’m not saying that practicing is bad. It would probably be good for me to practice two hours every day. But I’m just too tired.

Maybe you just don’t need it.

Well, I think I could sing some things better if I knew exactly what I was doing with every note. I just make sure that my body is in the right position, that my seat is roughly where it should be, and then I sing with that. But of course, it’s not that sophisticated. I could stand here now and work through yesterday evening in detail, note by note. That would take a lot of time, and I simply don’t have it. Maybe you do that if you don’t have a family or if singing is really the most important thing in the world to you. If you’re a coloratura soprano or sing extreme parts, you might do that, but luckily I’m a mezzo-soprano, hahaha. I sing a lot and have to warm up for every concert. That takes a long time for me.

So you already do that.

It takes me one to two hours to really warm up.

And the older I get, the less my body wants to get going. So it just takes a long time for my body to be strong enough to really function.

And do you use vocal exercises?

I don’t really know what to do with vocal exercises. I don’t have my own book for them and I don’t use any specific ritual. I do three little exercises and then I sing my songs. I sing the songs in slow motion, individual phrases very slowly, and try to position them. That’s also practice.

Gundula Janowitz once said during a master class at the Schubertiade that you should never sing at more than 80% of your volume. What is your opinion on this? Your tone is always very beautiful, even when singing fortissimo.

I don’t know if Ms. Janowitz said that because of the beauty of the sound. I think it’s more a question of how you deal with it and present yourself. Ms. Janowitz is, of course, from a different generation—the Schwarzkopf, Ludwig, Janowitz generation—and singing was different back then. They sang fantastically, and they certainly practiced every day!

But more controlled?

Very controlled, just like the fashion was back then: everything was beautiful, the ladies had these beautiful hairstyles, they wore these nice dresses. Everything has simply changed. That has nothing to do with better or worse, it’s just different. Not giving more than 80% certainly also has to do with vocal hygiene, so that you don’t overexert yourself, so to speak, and still have some reserves. I couldn’t do that. Yesterday I definitely gave 120%, and by the end I was completely out of energy because I’ve been singing so much for a month.

How did you like the hall?

I find it incredibly pleasant. For me, it’s also important where I look. It makes a difference whether I’m staring into a black hole or whether the walls are lit from behind. I find that very beautiful.

More beautiful than the Small Hall in the Concertgebouw?

It’s been a long time since I sang in the Small Hall. It’s completely different. I can’t even remember the acoustics anymore. But it’s different; you have more contact with the audience in the Small Hall. In general, I always need that; I have to see the people.

Do you look at the people? Even individual people?

Well, not individual people, I see individuals of course, but mostly when they draw attention to themselves in some way, because they’re filming and the lamp is flashing, or because they’re coughing or because they’re, I don’t know, doing something. But I need the contact. I tell stories at my recitals.

How did you feel about the concert?

During yesterday’s concert, I went through many phases because I was actually very exhausted and dragged myself to Amsterdam. But then I was looking forward to the hall; I really liked the acoustics and the hall. The rehearsal for the concert went really well, then it actually went really well, so I thought, aha, it’s going to work after all, and then the concert came and I got mucus in my voice, but energetically it went very well in the first half. In the second half, I had an energy slump because I had simply given more than 100%. I didn’t pace myself well. Because it was so much fun, I just went for it. In the second half, I sang at seventy or eighty percent because I thought I would collapse otherwise.

Were you that tired?

Yes, I felt really sick afterwards. That happens to me a lot; I really need a vacation. Singing is exhausting, incredibly exhausting for me.

It’s strange what you say about the concert, because I felt exactly the opposite. I found the first half a little unsettled and I liked the second half much better.

The impression you have of a concert doesn’t necessarily have to match the impression of others. Many colleagues confirm this to me. It’s often the case that with opera arias, you think, “Wow, I was really fantastic there,” but it didn’t come across at all. Often, concerts where you feel bad are ultimately better than those you think are quite good. You just can’t get cocky, you always have to remain modest and not overdo it.

I’m surprised by your statement about modesty, because you’re not a diva at all.

No, but I (hesitates briefly) … really try to take that to heart. It’s not particularly difficult for me now to take things more lightly. But I practice truthfulness in my interpretation. It’s not so easy to not deceive yourself. There are routine interpretations when you’ve sung a song many times. But I still try to become more truthful. Like an actor, so truthful. I have to be so truthful that people don’t even notice that I’m singing a song.

That they are so moved by the story…

Yes, exactly. They should be so carried away that it’s like in a play.

You have often sung trouser roles in opera, but you rarely do so in songs. Barbara Bonney, for example, simply sang “Dichterliebe.” What is your opinion on this?

I am now also doing Winterreise. That is my project for 2014. [DdM 2026: Due to illness, this has been delayed by several years.]

It’s also a little different from Dichterliebe because it’s often not explicitly gender-specific.

Helmut Deutsch talked about it yesterday because he wants to accompany me. I haven’t looked at it very closely yet, but actually, only the first four songs deal with gender-specific issues. After that, it dissolves more and more, so that you could say it could also be a boy. Basically, Winterreise is about human things, and women have these feelings too, so they can relate to it. That used to be totally common, in 1920 or 1930 it was totally normal.

After that, a lot changed.

I don’t know what happened then, I’m not a musicologist. Then everything changed, and suddenly the recital came along. In the past, everyone sang with music stands, across the board, and then there was a quartet in between. There are programs where they sang a different recital program every day. Of course, that only works if you sing with sheet music. It was so lively and integrated into life. And then came this sacred… this Messiah thing. Everyone seriously thinks they have a monopoly on wisdom.

Did it start with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau?

Or even before that, I think. It became a culture in which there was a god who did everything right, the measure of all things. Fischer-Dieskau was also wonderful, of course, this army, of course everything was very well thought out, and every word was interpreted. I really admire him very much, don’t get me wrong. And it wasn’t just him, there were others too. But this way of dealing with songs certainly took away some of the spontaneity. Now women also sing Winterreise.

Back to your voice: it always sounds beautiful, no matter what you do. That must have a lot to do with your resonance, the part of your voice that is determined by your genes. On the other hand, Peter Schreier says: “You have to have the courage to make ugly sounds too.” What do you think?

Yes, maybe he’s right. It’s not important to me whether the voice sounds beautiful or ugly. I’m the last person who wants to have a beautiful sound. I’ve sacrificed many things in opera. I just have to sing the note correctly, which means I have to position it correctly. Otherwise, my voice hurts, and of course I try to avoid that. I can also whisper or breathe sounds and work a lot with language, including pronunciation. However, I can’t change my voice. I’ve been teaching master classes for four years now, and most young singers always try to produce a sound at the beginning. They want to sound beautiful. It was the same for me. At first I sang like this (makes a light, hoarse soprano sound, like a child’s voice) and after six months I sang like this (makes a very heavy alto sound). Samson et Dalila, “Mon coeur souffre à ta voix,” and Carmen. That was completely the wrong approach, of course, but it wasn’t my choice, it was my teacher’s at the time. But I always sang songs too. During my studies, I developed into Cherubino because my voice became slimmer and slimmer. I would say that’s relaxed and comfortable.

That’s how it turned out, they didn’t choose it consciously, but …

No, I mean my body, my resonance chambers and my vocal cords, and the technique is basically always the same. Everyone who sings has the position at the top, and the color comes from below. What the muscles do with it and how that voice then sounds also has a lot to do with personality. You can sing with more drive or let yourself go. If the voice sounds metallic, it has a lot to do with the muscle setting, which in turn results from the state of mind.

I’ve often heard that my voice sounds beautiful. Well, maybe I’m lucky that it sounds beautiful, but I don’t think that’s important at all. Well, it doesn’t hinder me from really expressing myself, from saying something. It’s a mouthpiece through which emotions pass and express themselves. And everyone does that with their voice.

I am convinced that the message comes across just as well if the voice is not so beautiful. For example, I heard a Winterreise with the old Patzak, where Jörg Demuss plays. He was old, with a Viennese slang. The old man sings almost without support, almost spoken, but it is something that really moves me. I don’t need beautiful singing at all. I find that I sometimes have to be careful with myself. Yesterday I sang with more focus, but there was also a time when I sometimes forgot to sing. I thought I had to sing, otherwise it would be a Schubert recitative. Then I went too far in the other direction again. Two years ago, I sang a recital at the Vienna Konzerthaus and sang Brahms. Afterwards, I thought that I simply had to sing more, because I’m not an actress.

I would love to be an actress. I would much prefer not to have to sing, ha ha ha. Life would be so much easier, because this physical exertion… It’s my means of expressing myself.

It also keeps me disciplined. If I were an actress, I would have gone downhill long ago. I love life, but when you sing, you have to control yourself, be disciplined, get enough sleep, not drink too much, and not smoke too much. An actor can speak with a hoarse voice. This physical discipline sometimes gets on my nerves. Although… I once sang Der Rosenkavalier—I won’t say when or where—and I was out all night and came home at eight in the morning. But that was many years ago. I came home at eight, went to bed, and the performance started at six. I really thought I was going to die, and it was one of my best performances.