richard leech talks to parterre box

Richard Leech: It never occurred to me before the age of 15. I didn't know anything about opera at all. But around the time of 15 a choir teacher said I should take voice lessons in school. He happened to be friends with the then president of the board of the Tri-Cities Opera in Binghamton. It was that that led me to Carmen Savoca and Peyton Hibbitt, my teachers. I had sort of a trial lesson, and they told my mother, "Well, we don't teach children, but we'll listen to him."

Peyton still thinks I'm 19, or I turned 20. They tried to have one of their students teach me, and I sort of didn't show up. You know, I wanted to study with the teachers So they took me as a student, and I joined the opera chorus. I started doing Gilbert and Sullivan with this nice unique college amateur group called Summer Savoyards in Binghamton. I think it's 25 years old now, or � no, it's more than that. I was 15 years old when I started. (laughs) And now I'm 20, so.... Anyway, it was a really great opportunity, without being in opera, to be onstage, to learn what that was about. I did Frederick; I did Nanki-Poo � you name it. I've done, I think, nine of them, actually. Frederick is quite a wonderful role.

I would never say never, because there's a real spot soft in my heart for them. It would need to be a special project. But I think there's some interesting stuff there to be played with. Who knows? So that went on concurrently with studying at the opera, being in the opera chorus all season. Then I did some minor leads, like Remendado in Carmen. As a matter of fact, that's when I started dating my wife. She was a cigarette girl. My debut was Parpignol, so I skipped "Prugne di Tours!" By the time I did Rodolfo I had been in the opera three times, in the chorus and as Parpignol. So the opera was an old friend by the time I was old enough to do it.

There is no substitute for being onstage. I was able to just grow up onstage, doing opera -- like it was a normal thing. Once you've done it enough, I believe that at least starts to become a nonissue. And, of course, you're always pursuing the vocal craft. You have to, as a working professional, overcome some of the hurdles that you encounter until you've been onstage enough.

Dealing with unexpected events. And Parpignol is a good place to learn that. Kids and props. And Goro -- I mean, everything in the world happens to him....

They've been good to me. The biggest thing about a singer who is about to have a big career is not that he needs a lot of money to pay off his voice lessons, or to get a new car or something. What he needs is some extra resources, to be able to say no to the wrong job. Even when it seems you need that job more than anything in life. The Tucker Award let me say no Trovatore at La Scala. I was about 25. That's a good one. I also turned down a chance to study at La Scala a couple years earlier. In the Caruso competition I was 23. It was the first Enrico Caruso competition, for tenors 25 and under. I tied for the top place with William Mateuzzi, who's a tenor in Italy, and has some nice success. Part of the prize was to study at La Scala for two years. I was right in the thick of doing my study in Binghamton, and getting the experience I was talking about. Really, just finally, at 23 starting to do some roles -- and starting to do what I'd been thinking about doing, now, for five years. So I turned it down -- and never regretted it. Let's see -- what else did I turn down? Well, a good example would be the first contract offered to me from City Opera. The first contract I was offered at City Opera was more money than I'd ever made in a year working in the deli and the restaurant. And it was a couple of things I actually did want to sing, and about five things I didn't want to sing, and more covers then performances. Not an atypical offer for a young singer, you know? But it wasn't what I was looking for. The next year I was offered a guest contract doing Bohème. That's what I was looking for. So "no" is the thing for a young singer to figure out, and it's things like The Tucker Foundation that allow that to happen.

I did say yes to Samson, in Binghamton. I also said yes to Norma in Binghamton. Notice I haven't said yes to them anywhere else. When I was doing roles in Binghamton, they were roles I wouldn't necessarily accept elsewhere. Sort of under the watchful eye of the mentors, and not under a microscope at all. I debuted in Hoffman at 23, you know? Luckily, I had no idea how hard it was. I just sort of sang it. And then I went back to do it several years later, regionally, "I said: Oh, my God! What the hell was I thinking?" And then I put it away for another 10 years after that

So long as I get to do the prologue -- that's cool. The prologue is some of the hardest music. The middle of the "Kleinzach" aria is very difficult. Those two pages I did know were difficult when I was 23. They jumped right out at me.

We always ask this question about what we call "A Boy and His Diva." Is there one performance, by one performer, that really changed your life?

Lanza. When I saw The Great Caruso on television, it was not yet in the period when I was starting to sing, let alone think about an opera career. But it made an impact on me that I believe affected my ability to say: "Oh, this is an option." It happened pretty quickly, between the time I was 15 and 17 I went from not even knowing I could sing to deciding, "Hey, I could do this as a career." When you�re a kid from a small town in upstate New York, you don't think about going into opera as a career. It never occurs to you. You know, football is where it's at. I believe that it's the experience of having heard Lanza, and particularly that movie -- that made me susceptible to accepting opera as a career. The other part of that equation is Tri-Cities Opera. I was in this nurturing environment where opera was flourishing.

In The Great Caruso there's a montage where Caruso basically has the same build to his career that you had. There's the scene of him singing in the chorus of Aida, and then he's doing the messenger.

I think it probably happens a lot. One of my first paying gigs outside of Binghamton was Borsa in Michigan. And I don't remember who the tenor was, so that's good, I suppose. I�m sure he was thinking, "Who brought this loud kid here?"

I was actually going to ask you about Mario Lanza, because he's inspired two whole generations of tenors�

And counting. The records are still coming out new and hitting charts. It's amazing. What Mario Lanza was for me was this early impact. He was operatic singing -- the tenor voice I'd heard until I started studying and then listening to some recordings after that. And then, as I started analyzing singing and other singers, I began to appreciate Lanza�s communication, his passion ... the sort of unbridled communication of emotion. When that emotion was missing in another singer I would notice: "Uh, that's beautiful -- but why isn't it reaching out and grabbing me?"

When you're not singing onstage, are you just like singing around the house -- in the shower?

Yes and no. To me singing is a business. I'm blessed with being able to do for a living what I love to do, and not have a "real job." But it is my job, and I do try -- to a great extent �- to leave it at the office. Having said that, I do tend to hum a lot. But not necessarily the operas that I'm singing.

When I was 17 and deciding that I could maybe be a singer, my first instinct -- which I think, again, goes with growing up in a small town in USA -- was: "Oh, well, Broadway makes the most sense, doesn't it?" Of course. I think because I was around the opera, and I knew already a bit about the trained voice, my attitude was: "Even if I want to do Broadway, training my voice classically makes total sense." Within a short period after that, it became apparent to me that it really was where I belonged -- it just sort of fit. We fit together and I said: "Okay, don't fight that. Just do it."

There's all sorts of Broadway material I'd be interested in doing. There's no Broadway schedule I'd be interested in performing. But I'd love to do crossover stuff.

A very nice lady. You know, quite often we have crazy fans. Rosemary, though eccentric, is fanatic in the good sense. I mean, she defines the word "fan" in her fanaticism. She understands there�s a line beyond which a fan doesn't cross. Rosemary respects that, and it's what's allowed us to become friends as well.

Do you feel any pressure there? I mean, having that much attention paid maybe puts a little a pressure�

No, no. Someone like Rosemary actually is the dream case for a performer, because even when I have an off night, she's the first to forgive me for not being 100%. It works both ways. She's also the one who's there, in some city where I don't have anybody else there that night, and it happens to be the best performance I've done that entire year. It's a delight to have people who sincerely enjoy it. And they forgive you for your difficult nights. They really do.

There are a lot of performers who basically have recorded everything they sing. And you have a very big repertoire, and you haven't recorded all of it � in the studio, I mean.

In other words, some of it exists unofficially � underground. My general feeling is that pirate recordings, per se, generally do nothing but enhance a singer's career. There rarely are situations where a pirate recording is causing someone not to buy another recording. And so the only fear of the industry is that somebody's not buying recordings because they're getting them for free. But the reality is, opera fans are such that if they want your pirate recording of Boheme, then they're going to want the one that they need to buy in the store, as well. That�s the nature of an opera fan. And so, in a way, pirates only enhance your presence, and therefore your salability in the record store. The only troubling part is that not every performance is one that we like to have recorded for posterity. The nature of live performing is just that. You're proud of it for that evening, regardless of its strengths or weaknesses. But because we do live in a studio-recording age, where recordings generally are expected to be polished -- we worry that a pirate recording isn't viewed in the proper light. If it's viewed as, "This is what Richard Leech�s Rodolfo sounded like," well, that�s wrong. That was one night. That's the only thing that's sometimes troubling -- worrisome.

In the most general philosophical terms, then, can I can ask how you feel about booing?

I'm not against booing, in general. I do believe that you shouldn't be booing while the music is playing.

In that particular instance, my only problem with the booing that went on was that it was while the music was still playing -- while the act was still being completed. The, uh, "booer" has since sent a message to me, saying: You know, look. I apologize, and it had nothing to do with you. And I know you know that." So that was nice. But I do think that, just as I don't want anybody to bravo as I finish the high C of "la speranza!" in Bohème -- they should wait until the music actually stops and it's an appropriate moment -- booing during a piece is not appropriate, either. Now, they bought the ticket. When the downbeat's done and the cutoff is finished and the curtain comes down -- when they didn't like something, that's certainly their right to boo. Absolutely.

There actually is one bit that you did in that Butterfly that I haven't seen since. I guess it's sort of been smoothed out. Was when they take the wedding photograph, and you sort of put your hat off to one side of your head, and held up a glass. And it was just such a frat-boy thing to do.

I think that making Butterfly too smooth is a problem. You know, and one of the nice things about the Met production is that there were some edgy moments to it. And I think, if done from the right place, there's nothing wrong with that. You know, if people weren't happy that I was drinking a little too much, or I was smoking, or I was a little aggressive sexually with Butterfly -- there's nothing lascivious about it. You know, I was just having a good time.

One of my favorite things I've ever seen you do as an actor, is that bit. That, and about 10 years ago you were doing Bohème at the City Opera. And at the very end of Mimi's "Addio," you turn around and you kicked the snow. I thought that was exactly right for Rodolfo.

That must have happened from being in the moment, because that's nothing that I recall ever being staged; or even deciding to do consciously. You know, that is the fun thing about the theater of opera. So often the structure of opera is very limiting, cumbersome dramatically. Sometimes because it's an unnatural setting historically, or as a theater piece, but also because it's just plain not natural to be singing while you're saying all these things. When we are able to find moments in pieces that let us just be a character -- it's really a wonderful thing. Rodolfo's that kind of a role. All you have to do is be Rodolfo. And remember to duck when they throw the fish at you. But the reality is, you just have to be this guy. And anything you do is going to be right, because you're this guy. Pinkerton's a little that way, as well. You know, I often say: I don't need a rehearsal for Pinkerton. All I need to do is show up at the house, and Goro'll tell me where everything is. And they're going to bring Butterfly up. And I go: Wow -- this is cool. That's it. I don't really need to know what's going on! I just have be this guy that shows up. It can really be done that way -- if you've got a good Butterfly and a good Pinkerton.

We were all saying we wanted you to like fly out over the audience for your curtain call like Sandy Duncan.

You know, they click the wire on to me behind the curtain, then, as the curtain goes up, I move upstage, and they lift me. Well, in one performance -- it must have been Dean Peterson's first -- as I'm going back, I notice that the wire caught on the curtain, where it comes through the Velcro. I said: "This is not good. This is not a good thing." The curtain was lifting me up, and as soon as the wire broke free of the curtain, I would be dropped back onto the stage. I think a very astute flyman noticed that the wire was caught, so he picked up the slack. But then, when it finally let go, I'm eight feet downstage of where I'm supposed to be. So it let go, and I started swinging this really big arc. Whoosh! Dean was convinced I was going to hit the huge telescope, but, fortunately�

That kind of leads me to my next question. I always ask everybody what was the dumbest thing they've ever done onstage?

And they actually tell you? Well� I had a history with Lucia for a period of time. And it was not that it was dumb -- it was more klutzy than anything. But I didn't seem to be able to do Lucia anywhere without falling. And not just falling -- I mean falling. There's almost no opera with a greater tenor entrance than Edgardo�s, right? So, my first time doing the opera, in Binghamton, I had to up the escape stairs to get to Lucia, and I caught my sword on the steps, and, crash, I�m singing the first line to her feet. "Lucia, perdona!" After the laughter died down, we continued. Then, my first Lucia at City Opera. I don't know if you remember, it was stone steps going up around a fountain, and then a platform across. These uneven stone steps, you know, with fog all over them. So it was a little slippery. I skittered down about 17 steps � without falling, but it was quite the moment. And then Lucia in Berlin. I got onstage just fine, and I sang, "Ad-di-i-o!"and made my exit, which was down a staircase into the bowels of the stage. I caught a heel, and, well, it was two stories down. Boom! And the little stagehands in their white coats come around: "Herr Leech! Herr Leech!" And, you know, at the end of the Sextet, in that same performance, I fell again. We hadn't had much rehearsal -- it was a throw-it-on kind of thing. There are these old-fashioned arches -- you know, just a flat with the pole holding it up. As I exited with great indignity of attitude, I made it through the arch just fine. But hit the pole.

Now, I hope you don�t mind a personal comment, but there's a little bit less of you this year. Are you working out? Or dieting?

No. I mean, I always try not to get bigger. But I do try to maintain of a look that's going to be somewhat appropriate for the character. I love golf. I absolutely adore golf, and sailing. Which I do a bit of in the summer. But nothing too strenuous that I can think of.

Well actually, it is. You know, when you rehearse a production extensively for a month or more, then you realize how physical the job is. Quite often we get in runs where we're only performing every third day or something, and that's not the same thing. But when we're rehearsing six hours a day, six days a week, depending on the piece, you're using it up -- you really are. It really burns a lot.

Okay. So why do sopranos like so much to sing with you? Diana Soviero and Cathy Malfitano, and Miss Villaroel and Miss Millo, they all say, "I love to sing with Richard Leech."

One of the things I realized early on is that the better that my colleagues do, the better I do. It's this synergistic effect -- it really is. It's not every man for himself -- it's more Three Musketeers: One for all, all for one. And I think that sometimes gets lost on the opera stage. So I appreciate when I have the kind of support from my colleagues that helps me do my best. And if there's anything I can do to make them do better, it only makes my performance better. It's also just plain more pleasant to work in that kind of environment -- where you're helping each other, and you want each other to do well. It's usually little things -- but I guess the little things make a difference. I think quite often you'll find that the singers who enjoy working with me are themselves good actors. They're committed acting singers who are looking for more than just some "presentation." Just listening to each other on stage makes a huge difference. The best singers I've ever worked with have that giving quality.

Now, I know you're singing constantly -- it seems like you're singing every other night, all year round.

That�s really not true. I've got one of the easiest schedules of an opera singer you've ever met. When I'm at the Met I'm singing a lot. But their schedule is so well-formed that it's a real pleasure singing at the Met. There are some places where you go, and it's like nine days between performances, and then you have two -- one right after the other -- and that kind of thing. But at Met it's really well-scheduled, almost always two days, sometimes three, in between. It's just a delight to work on that kind of schedule. I choose to try to only do one production at a time. Now, if I were doing Butterfly and Tosca at the same time, that would be a whole different deal. How would I keep track of the undergarments?

Off and on. I find that when I'm rehearsing it's very difficult, because it's, like I said, six hours a day, six days a week. The trick is getting to an opening night with all of your facilities, and some amount of energy. Once the show opens, I do enjoy going to the opera. But, of course, even when I'm in New York, I'm not actually in Manhattan. So that limits the amount of times I go to the opera, as well. Plus I also like to get away from it. So I sort of pick and choose, and go several times a season. But I don't go all the time.

I�m doing many more Carmens. You know, I added it first in San Diego. And by the time you actually sing it, you have to decide, if you want to do more of his, you have to start booking it in. Except you don't really want to book 'em in until you've actually done it, to see how it fits. So now, I've scheduled more in, and now they're coming. I'm doing it in Chicago this winter and then at the Met next year. I'm looking forward the kind of development in the role of Don José that I've had in Tosca over the last few seasons And the next role I'm adding is Luisa Miller in Berlin.

Yeah, now there�s a stretch! Rick Leech as a blond, who ever would believe it?

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