A Rainy Afternoon with Phyllis

Today I had the great pleasure to spend an otherwise rainy and unpleasant afternoon chatting with my dear friend, Phyllis Curtin. Phyllis is looking radiant these days after a spell of poor health.


Sitting in front of a blazing fire, our topic, as usual, was mostly singers and singing and teaching people how to sing


We talked about choral conductors who expect forty year old women to produce a vocal sound similar to that of a six year old boy, with what the late Anna Russell called, 'A good cutting edge!'

Then we talked about the current epidemic of wobbles that is rampant among many operatic sopranos. This brought us to a discussion of the late Maria Callas, whose wobble is legendary. Phyllis told of the time when she was singing in London that she and her husband went to hear Callas sing in a concert. Gene said, 'You know how it will be', but Phyllis had never heard Callas live and they went. She said that when she saw her pushing down on the chest with shrugged shoulders, she thought, 'No wonder this woman is having trouble singing.'

Then I spoke about my dear friend, the late, great dramatic soprano, Lucilla Udovich. John and I met Lucille in 1982 in Rome. Her brilliant career in Europe was halted by continuing problems with her back, forcing her to leave the operatic stage.

We visited her in her apartment in Rome. John persuaded Lucille to sing for us and we were blown away with the voice, the artistry, the artist. I said, 'Lucille, you must perform! She answered, 'How can I? I can't stand for that length of time'. And I said, 'Then sit and sing!'

And that's what we did. We persuaded her to perform a number of concerts with her seated on a throne-like chair. I would be seated at the piano. The curtains would be closed. Then they would open- and there we were. And she sang! It was a beautiful experience for me. Her singing in a video on RAI of Turandot with Franco Correlli, has been hailed as one of the great Turandots of the century.

Lucille died in Rome in the early 2000's, and when John and I were in Rome after her death, we wanted to take her sister, Annie, to dinner. Annie had been a loyal companion to Lucille throughout her career and in her time of incapacitation.

We met at Scolio di Frisio, a restaurant where both John and I and Lucille and Anne had dined many times. Anne and Lucille used to live in an apartment right across the street from the restaurant. Sometimes when dining there, the owner would entice Lucilla to sing an aria or two, replacing the standard 'O Sole O Mio' tenor, who was the usual dinner music.

We sat with Anne in a private booth and laughed and cried, talking over Lucille's life and death. We ordered everything on the menu. It was wonderful.

After several hours, I finally thought it was time to ask for 'Il conto, per piacere'. The waiter went away to add it up and when he returned, he whispered something in Annie's ear.

'They won't take any money', she said.

Then the owner came to the table and we all hugged and wept a little more over Lucille and I thought, 'This is a first in my lifetime.' They were so fond of Lucilla and Annie that this was a tribute to their friendship. It still takes my breath away.

I'm proud to be an Italian. We think with our hearts!