I’ve decided that this afternoon’s chore of scrubbing and polishing a marble floor will be rewarded by a nice pot of Marco Polo tea (from Mariage frères, bien sûr), to accompany a freshly baked praline cake from Pralus, all for myself. But before the treats, I will have to dutifully prepare the pails, the scrub brushes, the rubber gloves, and of course pull on my faithful kneepads.
But why would anyone have professional-grade kneepads around for such a seldom-done task in the first place?
That’s easy: I’ll bet most singers have a nice collection of assorted kneepads, various souvenirs from years of traveling from one opera job to another, having survived modern stagings where you may be expected to sing in literally all conceivable positions, excepting of course while standing. Singing while standing has long been considered outdated.
True, major theaters around the world will provide the pads for you, for the stage rehearsals for example, and even at the drop of a hat: just ask the director’s assistant, or the stage manager, there’s usually a box of them for that purpose. However, they are often worn during the performances, too, whether under XVIIIth century breeches, regal dressing gowns, or even under a priest’s long black robe, and it’s always nice to have a comfy pair that fits just right, and which may possibly be more to your personal taste from a hygienic point of view.
The Commendatore falls to his knees and dies in an early scene in Act I of ‘Don Giovanni,’ for example. Kneepads. Monteverdi’s Seneca opens his own veins and dies onstage, whether in Mantua, London, Paris, or Oslo. Kneepads.
And then there are those roughneck moments such as when I first sang Der Einarmiger (the one-armed man in ‘Die Frau ohne Schatten’) in Toulouse. At the first stage rehearsal I was perky, equipped with my personal kneepads, and even had one arm bound behind me, for added “method-actor” realism. But my enthusiastic new partner, singing Der Einäugige (we’ll give him some slack since he only has one eye), took the fun a bit too seriously, and unwittingly pushed me so hard that I fell onto a metal grate in the floor three meters away – you lose balance easily with only one arm – which was already littered with broken glass from the same stage fight. The open gash on my right hand required a few stitches, but I was back rehearsing the next day, older and wiser and bandaged. But with kneepads.
A truly sadistic stage director at the Paris Opéra required several minutes of stage business to be sung while on my knees. The rehearsals were endless, so that one scene required me to be on my knees for 45 minutes, without relief. Again, another trip to the sporting goods store, and I showed up the next day with the best and most comfy pair on the market!
Who knew that the noble knight Gurnemanz wears kneepads as he invokes “Durch Mitleid, wissend, der reine Thor?”
Who would guess that Don Quichotte himself is adept at his personal knee-joint health? Just tricks of the trade, friends, and tricks for survival in a tough business. Because the takeaway here is that I can still walk, and laugh about it. Sic transit gloria mundi all over again.
Now that my marble floor is glistening anew, my appetite tells me I’m ready to enjoy the rewards of ritual purification and temporary household cleanliness, so I shall now indulge in my 4PM tea break. With both knees comfortably stretched out, thanks very much!
Next time, I hope to address the very serious singer subject of “diva blankets.”