I finished last Summer with an almighty bang. And that was going to be it. No more amateur opera for Husten. You have been a fantastic audience.
I love the singing, especially when you try and reach a note you thought could only be reached by a technique which is commonly known in S&M or rather BDSM dungeons as CBT: cock and ball torture. I am not a natural tenor, but when you do reach those exhilarating heights, it makes you light-headed and it turns into pure orgasmic gratification. I can only assume it must be the same for the masochist. But enough about fetishes coz it’s not my particular scene nor stage and WordPress has a nasty habit of picking out the wrong words from my blog. And then there is of course this court case here in the UK at the moment and sure as hell I will attract … Fuck it, let’s start again.
I finished last Summer with an almighty bang. And that was going to be it. No more amateur opera for Husten. You have been a fantastic audience.
It was only my fourth opera and the novelty had definitely not yet worn off. I’d had never done anything like this before in my life and the sheer sensation that somebody as untalented as me could pull this off every night on stage in front of at times 800 people is something I easily got addicted to. Indeed, I had turned into Robbie fucking Williams. With a better voice on top.
Also.
Whilst I had foreseen the singing to be the biggest problem, it turned out to be the most enjoyable. Singing so I found out is very physical, did pleasant things to me, better left unmentioned here. The choreography was more tricky, but given 6 months of repetitive rehearsals and I always somehow managed to get it right in the end.
However.
Not being able to act is not a biggie in the amateur opera world, it was most certainly for me. The knowledge that everybody would see I couldn’t act freaked me out. I froze, literally, during rehearsals. Vanity. The days with which I spend. But alcohol defrosts I know all too well. After a couple of whiskeys, I couldn’t give a rat’s arse anymore. And I turned ok.
Therefore.
It was the acting that became the dilemma. Alcohol took care of my inhibitions, made me forget I was performing. Unfortunately it made me forget how to sing and reach my notes as well. Sober: singing splendid, acting awful. Sozzled: singing shocking, acting, well, who gives a flying fuck? Catch 22.
Even so.
The experience of my last opera was so overwhelmingly satisfying that I decided no other performance could possibly match it. I would never again have as much fun. Final curtain call, time to wrap it up, pack it in, pack my bags, fly to that desert island with my BBC allowance of 8 pieces of music, to sing to and envelop myself with memories of past grandeur resolutely stamped for approval by the Gods of Creativity commonly known in poets’ corners as “N&M”: Nostalgia and Melancholy.
But.
Then.
The polite question.
The begging.
The inflating ego out-of-control-rocketing, “We need you!” comment.
The fluttering of female eyelashes.
The prospect of meeting lots of new people, mainly female, mainly young.
The moronic Robbie Williams, “Let me entertain you, you young’ns!” thought.
The drunken, inevitable, “Fuck the acting!”
I need to hurry.
The first rehearsal of my new show starts in an hour.
