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Stepping Onstage as a Waitress, She May Exit the Met as a Star By
DANIEL J. WAKIN Until 18 months
ago, Erika Sunnegardh, a soprano, had never sung an opera role on
stage. But in a story that will give a jolt of hope to every would-be performer with a serving tray, Ms. Sunnegardh, 40, has been assigned to appear today at the Metropolitan Opera in the title role of Beethoven's "Fidelio" as a last-minute substitute for an ailing Karita Mattila. What's more, the performance is one of the house's Saturday radio broadcasts, heard by 10 million people around the world. Compare it to the Yankees starting a pitcher who had done nothing more than toss batting practice, or the president appointing a beat cop as defense secretary. In the annals of opera, it ranks with Plácido Domingo stepping in for Franco Corelli in 1968 to make his Met debut. Astonishingly, the Met embraced Ms. Sunnegardh solely on the basis of two brief auditions in May 2004, well before her first appearance on any opera stage. She was engaged to cover for Ms. Mattila in the current run of "Fidelio" and to give one performance, on April 13. She is also covering Elsa in this season's "Lohengrin" and will sing a Valkyrie during the Met's tour to Japan in June. Next season, she will sing the First Lady in Mozart's "Magic Flute," will cover Elettra in his "Idomeneo," and in the biggest break of all, will share a run of Puccini's "Turandot" in the spring of 2007. "We were amazed at how big the voice was, especially at the top," said Jonathan Friend, the Met's artistic administrator and main talent searchlight. She had other attributes, he said: beauty and maturity. "She was, as a human being, grown up," he said. "She had had another life, and knew what she didn't know." Mr. Friend cautioned against raising expectations too high. He noted that Ms. Sunnegardh was still working on improving the middle of her voice. More immediately, he added, "To ask somebody to make their Met debut on a broadcast of a role this size and difficulty, replacing Karita — it's asking a lot." Met officials said they could not recall a similar debut, particularly for a singer of such relatively advanced age. Joseph Volpe, the Met's general manager, wrote about her discovery in his memoir, "The Toughest Show on Earth," which will be published next month. "Not since Rosa Ponselle's debut in 1918, opposite Caruso in 'La Forza del Destino,' has the Met given an unknown singer such an opportunity," Mr. Volpe wrote. Ms. Sunnegardh said last night that she felt bad that the opportunity came at the expense of Ms. Mattila. But she added, "I'm excited, I have to admit." She said having 24 hours' notice before a performance as a cover was a luxury, because "It feels like everything is in place." In an interview on Thursday, before learning that she was to go on stage today, Ms. Sunnegardh, who lives in Riverdale, spoke for two hours at an Upper West Side cafe about her difficult road. She was articulate and seemed self-assured and relaxed, occasionally brushing back a wisp of ash-blond hair. The humbleness of waiting on tables, she said, prepared her to deal with the pressure of a big career. Singing at funerals taught her that musical performance was not a celebration of the ego but something to be transmitted to other individuals. Years of struggle freed her from the debilitating fear of failure. "It's an interesting life, but I am so ridiculously and gleefully happy and blessed," Ms. Sunnegardh said. "There's something to be said for running into the wall. Falling down and picking yourself up is great life experience." Ms. Sunnegardh's career was delayed despite an impeccable musical pedigree. Both parents were prominent voice teachers in Sweden, and a half-brother is a tenor. Her father, Arne, was the last teacher of Birgit Nilsson, the legendary Swedish soprano, and a touring accompanist for the tenor Jussi Bjoerling, another great. She had superb training in Stockholm, attending a choir school and studying modern dance. At 19, restless at the conformist nature of Swedish society and feeling what she called the normal desire of a teenager to escape one's family, she came to New York to dance. "I had those little misguided dreams," she said. "It was probably mostly a cover for getting away from home." Her manager, Ann Braathen, suggested that Ms. Sunnegardh may have wanted to escape the pressure of her heritage. She eventually went to the Manhattan School of Music, graduating in 1992, but was poorly trained. Her voice was bell-like and clear, but not under control, "sort of like a wild horse," she said. Ms. Sunnegardh's voice leans to that of the dramatic soprano, the heaviest and most powerful of the soprano categories, and one that generally develops late anyway. Lyric sopranos, by contrast, can be fully formed in their 20's.Without technical assurance, Ms. Sunnegardh lacked confidence. "Vocal technique is like money or sex," she explained. "If you don't have it, it's all you think about." She worked in restaurants to make ends meet, sometimes waiting on former colleagues and teachers. "It's hard. I was 30 years old and waitressing, and didn't have any proof I'd do anything else." She catered parties, serving canapés to members of Lincoln Center boards, among others, and worked as a personal assistant to an executive and translator. In 1996, brought in by a music-loving pastor, she began singing at Holy Rosary Church in the Bronx. "I got a weekly dose of feeling needed, yet egoistically very insignificant," she said. Ms. Sunnegardh went back to school, earning a master's degree from the Aaron Copland School of Music at Queens College. And then came a teaching breakthrough. "I went through a lot of soul-searching," she said. "That's when I realized the only person I hadn't asked for help on a very technical level was my mother." It was a difficult thing to do, Ms. Sunnegardh said, but the focus — a sort of narrowing — that her mother, Margareta, gave to her voice was the turning point. She then moved to a teacher named Elizabeth Blancke-Biggs, with whom she still studies. Ms. Blancke-Biggs, in turn, opened her voice, teaching her to "let it rip." Another turning point came on a sweltering summer day in 2003, Ms. Sunnegardh said, when she found herself dressed in a polyester tuxedo with a wine bottle in each hand while catering a Hamptons wedding, near tears with the futility of her efforts. Ms. Sunnegardh said she shook off the self-pity and took stock of the good things in her life. "It sort of pulled the plug on the drama of going out and singing for people." She began auditioning that fall. In January 2004, she contacted Ms. Braathen, whom she had long known. Ms. Braathen's family had taken in the 6-year-old Ms. Sunnegardh for a time when her father died. Ms. Braathen listened to a CD of her singing. "It was stunning," she said. The manager arranged an audition for the Malmo Opera, which immediately hired her to sing "Turandot" in September 2004, which would become her debut. In March 2004, Ms. Braathen was chatting with Mr. Friend, of the Met, and dropped Ms. Sunnegardh's name. He probed a bit, asked to hear her and was so impressed that he arranged for James Levine, the Met's music director, to listen to Ms. Sunnegardh on the Met's main stage. Mr. Levine was enthusiastic. Since then, Ms. Sunnegardh has sung another "Turandot" in Sweden, several orchestra concerts there, and a "Fidelio" with the Florentine Opera in Milwaukee. Ms. Sunnegardh continued waitressing until two weeks before her Malmo debut. She had credit card bills to pay, after all. "It's 15 years of creeping debt," she said. -30-
Pitcher Is Put Back Together Again By ROBERT
ANDREW POWELL
"And pitching for Miami, No. 24, left-handed sophomore Scott Maine." He tossed a few warm-ups to his catcher, after each pitch adjusting his plastic face mask with the inside of his left elbow. Maine whipped the ball with the velocity that once made him one of the best prospects in the country. "It's like lightning coming out of his hand," says Jeff Schwarz, a former major leaguer who is Maine's private pitching coach. "It's a special arm, and he's left-handed on top of that." Since enrolling at the University of Miami, Maine had demonstrated only the precarious nature of an athlete's career. He had been so full of promise, but on Feb. 19, he was merely a 21-year-old sophomore making his first collegiate start against second-ranked Florida. Three years ago, his injured elbow required Tommy John reconstructive surgery. Then last summer, when it looked as if the elbow had healed, Maine shattered his skull in a car accident. He wears the mask for protection against line drives. Maine should probably sit out this season. But he missed a year because of his elbow. Some of his friends are playing professional ball. "I'm really anxious to get going and start," he said before the Florida game. His father, Bud Maine, said: "In baseball, younger people are always coming up. You'll never know if they're going to roll over you. So he's saying: 'This is it. This is my chance, and I may not get a next year.' " In high school, in Palm Beach Gardens, Fla., Maine set records. He had 119 strikeouts his senior year, when his earned run average was 0.10. When he turned down the Seattle Mariners to play for Miami, his coaches could not believe their luck. Maine threw a 93-mile-an-hour fastball. His curve broke so sharply, one coach described it as "sick." "We were happy to have him," the Hurricanes' pitching coach, J. D. Arteaga, said. "But we never really saw the true Scott Maine." Soon after he arrived in Coral Gables, Maine felt a twinge in his left elbow. Exams revealed he had torn a ligament, requiring the surgery. He sat out his freshman year. Last season, his coaches brought him along slowly. Maine pitched only nine innings, and only in relief. He pitched summer ball for the Herndon Braves in a collegiate league in Virginia. In six starts, Maine's fastball was again clocked in the mid-90's. He was named the league's top prospect. Coming into this school year, he said, "My arm felt good, like it was back." Then, on Aug. 19, he had the accident. Maine, driving the black 2003 Dodge Dakota RT truck that his father had bought for him, was returning to Miami from a dental appointment near his parents' house, speeding down Florida's Turnpike west of Fort Lauderdale. He says he has no memory of what happened. The police report reconstructed the accident. Two semi-trailers slowed traffic in the two left southbound lanes. From the far left lane, Maine swerved into the right lane, grazing a car he apparently had not noticed. His vehicle veered onto the grassy shoulder traveling in excess of 100 miles an hour, hit an embankment and vaulted over a six-foot chain-link fence, landing upright. Pine-tree trunks mangled both sides of Maine's truck. The roof was dented. The windshield shattered. The air bags deployed. Maine remained conscious. He kicked open the passenger door, crawled out and sat on the ground. His only visible wound was a four-inch cut at the hairline. "I'm all right," he told the paramedics. He was so belligerent, they knocked him out with drugs. They cut a hole in the fence, loaded him onto a stretcher and into a green-and-gold sheriff's helicopter, and flew him to North Broward Medical Center. "He had so many cracks in his face and head, I couldn't count them all," Dr. Richard Foltz, the attending neurosurgeon, said, adding: "He had every kind of fracture you can dream of. Things were crushed down and overlapping. Oh, it was a mess." Emergency-room doctors rank head trauma on a scale from 1 to 15; the highest number is given to someone who is fully alert and functional. "He came in about 5," Foltz recalled. Foltz induced a coma to control the swelling in Maine's brain and implanted a tube in the skull to drain blood and excess fluid. Then he called Maine's mother, Pat, who was on her way to the hospital. Foltz told her there was at best a 40 percent chance her son would live.The good news was limited. The membrane covering Maine's brain remained pretty much intact. His brain was bruised but largely undamaged. Maine was placed on a respirator. He regained consciousness after a couple of days, enough to acknowledge his girlfriend, her parents and his parents, who had essentially moved into his room. His Miami teammates came to visit, as did the coaching staff. They joked that Maine's black eyes made him look tough. Pressing a finger against his larynx so he could talk, Maine said he intended to be the staff ace this season. They laughed and told him it was possible. "He was telling us he wanted to be the Friday night starter," Arteaga, the pitching coach, said, "but we were just wondering if he'd even have a normal life again." Nine days after the accident, Foltz made an incision along Maine's hairline, from ear to ear. He peeled the skin down to the nose. Using a high-speed diamond-bit drill, Foltz basically removed Maine's forehead. It came off in pieces. "If you do a lot of these operations, you become a jigsaw-puzzle expert," Foltz said. Using three small titanium plates, Foltz reconstructed the forehead, then attached it to Maine's skull with four titanium rivets. He used 42 staples to close the incision. The night after surgery, Maine woke to a terrible headache, which was considered a good sign. He had double vision and could not stand the thought of eating food. Over the next couple of weeks, he lost about 40 pounds. The double vision vanished in six days. Maine's headaches ebbed with the constant application of ice packs. He walked within a week. Soon he was so mobile, nurses attached an ankle monitor that sounded an alarm whenever Maine approached an exit. "He's always been a strong-willed individual," Bud Maine said. "Basically, if he wanted to do something, he'd kind of find a way to do it, he'd find a way of cajoling you. It didn't matter if it was a trip to Disney World or money to go to the movies with his girlfriend, he had a way of getting you to believe this is what he really needed to do." Maine was released from the hospital 23 days after the accident. In workouts with his private coach, he began throwing again. First a few pitches a day, then a few more. They worked on interval throwing, with starts and stops as in a game. Fastballs were followed by breaking balls and then, finally, the curve. Maine threw in the 90's almost immediately. "He was awful darn good," Schwarz said. A few months after the surgery, fibers start to grow between the shattered parts of the cranium. Eventually, the bone regenerates. Solidification, as it is called, takes about a year. But six months after the accident, wearing a mask molded to his face, Maine took the mound against Florida. He struck out the first batter. The second popped out to center. Maine struck out the third to retire the side. "That's the way he can do it, the way he did it in high school," said Bud Maine, who watched from behind the dugout. "A solid fastball, two strikeouts an inning." Things fell apart in the second inning. As if he were back in Little League, Maine hit the first two batters. He walked in a run. An error by the catcher made the score 2-0, then Maine hit another batter to make the score 3-0. He walked in another run before being pulled. Maine tore off his mask as he walked to the dugout. "Baseball is a humbling sport," Arteaga said, adding: "As a pitcher, you're going to throw some bad ones. Those that are able to forget those bad ones are the ones that are going to be successful and make it up to the next level." Maine started again on Feb. 26, at home against Bethune-Cookman. This time, he pitched five solid innings to earn the victory, his first since high school. Maine has earned a spot in the rotation and was scheduled to make his next start today against Indiana. But he aims to be drafted in June so he can move on to a professional career. He keeps the phone number of his neurosurgeon in his wallet, just in case. "I don't really think it's a big deal," Maine said of his head injury. "I mean, other people would, but I'm still alive. It's not like I'm missing an arm. You never know what life throws at you, but I've overcome everything. I've gotten better, and I'm ready to pitch again."
No denying her: Kildow skies 2 days after crash February 16,
2006, Detroit Free Press MICHAEL ROSENBERG American Lindsey
Kildow speeds through the air during the women's downhill on Wednesday.
She finished eighth, 1.29 seconds behind the winner. (THOMAS KIENZLE/Assocated
Press) That one is named "Lindsey Kildow." She scolded herself for wiping out in a practice run Monday -- a crash so horrific, she figured to be off skis for several months. Kildow had a different schedule. She skied Wednesday, despite back pain and general misery. She finished eighth. And though I don't agree that she is an idiot, I might rethink it if she makes more statements like this: "I wanted to get a medal, but I still have more chances. Don't give up on me yet." Give up on her? Who in their right mind would do that? Sure, Kildow was 1.29 seconds behind gold medalist Michaela Dorfmeister, but when you go kersplat at speeds that would get you pulled over in most neighborhoods, it tends to slow you down a bit. The initial report was a broken pelvis and massive head trauma, which was surprising only because her knees were fine. This was the kind of crash where you get a diagnosis from one doctor, then ask to talk to the guy who examined the other half of you. The kind of crash that spurs Kildow's boyfriend, former Olympic skier Thomas Vonn, to pack his suitcase before he even heads to the hospital. When he was asked what kind of odds he would have given on Kildow's skiing two days after crashing, Vonn said, "None," which would have sorely disappointed Wayne Gretzky's wife. None. No chance. From gold-medal contender to a plane trip home. It didn't seem like a question of whether Kildow needed surgery; the question was what kind of surgery. If athletes are ever tested for performance-enhancing psychological traits, skiers will register abnormally high levels of denial. It's a job requirement. There are many nuances to the sport, but the appeal to the casual fan is that you go down the slope as fast as you possibly can without crashing. And that means you can't think about crashing. Skiers need their denial, for the same reason that nobody ever watches video of a plane crash, then calls Northwest to make a reservation. We all know that on rare occasions, planes crash. We know that if you fly down an icy mountain enough times, you're going to crash. But thinking about it won't do you a bit of good. Kildow admitted the accident crossed her mind Wednesday -- she was skiing down the same hill, after all. The good news, if you can call it that, is that she can't keep re-playing the whole accident in her head, because she doesn't remember it. "I just remember being in my tuck and going over the roll and all of a sudden I'm looking back up over the same roll I just went over," she said. "I lost memory for about 10 minutes. I just remember skiing and my back being in an incredibly large amount of pain." The night of her accident, Kildow was consoled by American skiing icon Picabo Street. It sounds like a moment crafted by NBC, and it was -- Kildow and Street had never met before. No, I'm kidding. They're best buds. "She was incredible," Kildow said. "She spent the whole night with me. She supported me. She cried with me. She just said that she knew I could do it, and I just had to be positive and get back there as soon as I can. She knew once I got back out there, I'd have a medal. Just not" Wednesday. They don't give Comeback Player of the Games awards at the Olympics, but if Kildow wins a medal, they ought to start. It won't be easy. The rest of her events all involve some sort of slalom, which is much harder on a skier's back than the downhill. But at least Kildow got the first-race-back jitters out of the way. At least she knows that two days after a horrible crash, she came back, skied in pain and finished eighth. She can refuel on denial now. Besides, there is a word for people who doubt her. Idiot
-30-
Cross-country
journey brings Brewer to BSO By Richard Dyer, Globe Staff | January 20, 2006 At 7:40 last night the Boston Symphony Orchestra's limousine drew up to the Symphony Hall stage door and soprano Christine Brewer emerged. ''We are very happy to see you," said BSO artistic administrator Anthony Fogg, for Brewer had flown in from Lebanon, Ill., to substitute for Deborah Voigt in Beethoven's ''Missa Solemnis" without rehearsal. The
drama began at 1:30 yesterday afternoon when Voigt withdrew from all
three performances this weekend, citing ''indisposition." The
call went out to Brewer, who was having lunch in St. Louis with friends.
She'd left her cellphone in the car during lunch; her management was
urgently trying to track her down, even calling her husband, a schoolteacher,
at work. ''Where have you been?" was the voice-mail message. The only people in the airport were Brewer, the pilot, and his wife. ''Believe me, this is going to be front-page news at home," the happy diva said after last night's performance and the ovation that her onstage colleagues gave her after music director James Levine brought her forward. Brewer has been singing the ''Missa Solemnis" for years, most recently with the St. Louis Symphony a couple of seasons ago. ''My first one was with [legendary American conductor] Robert Shaw," she recalled. ''Everyone else had been singing it for years, so this was a baptism by fire. Whenever I would make a mistake in rehearsal, he would say, 'Christine, this is my favorite piece to conduct.' It has become one of my favorite pieces to sing, but no matter how often you have sung it, you have to be on the alert." She was already looking forward to tonight's performance. Her only worry? ''I'm going to do something about my hair," she said. -30-
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