Juan Pons was born to a poor family on the small island of Minorca off the coast of Spain. His father sang in a local church choir and took the young Pons with him to rehearsals, laying the foundation for something neither he nor his father probably ever imagined: an international opera career spanning nearly three decades.
Although still in the thick of regular performances at major houses worldwide, including the Met and La Scala, as well as opera houses in Vienna, Zurich, and Rome, Pons finds time to give back to the next generation of singers. The summer of 2008 found him among the students of the Bel Canto Institute in Florence, Italy, where he not only favored students with masterclasses, but also made time to sit and talk with singers.
I sat down with Pons for an interview during his days in Italy. Jane Klaviter, Bel Canto Institute program director, was also on hand to translate my English into Italian, and Pons’ Italian into English.
The role that won you international attention was Falstaff at La Scala in 1980. What and where were you singing before that and what led up to that moment?
First I sang in Carnegie Hall, and San Diego, and San Francisco. Until 1978, I sang as a bass, and only two years [after switching to baritone] I premiered in Falstaff. [While learning Falstaff in Rome], after many days, Maestro Siciliani called the critic of the big newspaper and said, “We’ve got our Falstaff,” and he made me sing into the phone. It was a very beautiful story for me.
After Falstaff, the development of my career went “like that.” From that moment on, for 20 years, I was the Falstaff at La Scala.
How do you learn your roles?
I go directly to the maestro [and] to the coach, and I listen to every recording that exists: This one you’ll like one thing about, and another you’ll like another thing about. I’d go to two different maestri in Rome to get different ideas.
The other role you’ve sung quite a bit is Scarpia. How did you prepare for that role and what was it like to sing with Montserrat Caballé?
I sang a lot with Caballé at the beginning of my career. It was she who discovered me as a baritone. I sang the King in Aida, and Bartolo with Domingo and Caballé. She told me after [she first heard me sing], “I want to hear you sing at my house.” And then she said, “I don’t want to hear any more bass parts from you.” My agent was Caballe’s brother. I sang a lot of things with her [Caballe], and she always gave me advice.
But for Tosca, I was supposed to sing it in Columbia for the first time. The men who sat in the top rows of the theater had a club, and every 15 days or so, young singers would sing for them. So the tenor and soprano I was singing with brought a pianist from the theater and we did the whole opera for them, in concert form. It was a small space and we had a conductor. That was my dress rehearsal to sing Tosca in Columbia.
What was transitioning from bass to baritone like for you?
Theoretically, it was more or less the same, only the tessitura was higher. Technically, it’s all the same. Things change, and the voice develops as you go along. You may change repertoire but the technique is always the same. When I went to Caballe’s house, I had been away from home singing for four years and suddenly she said, “You’re a baritone.” I felt as if I’d lost four years of my life, like the roof had fallen in on me. She said no, that I’d just have to change the tessitura, but the technique is the same. The basis is the same.
How do you approach studying a role so that you can inhabit it fully on stage?
I do things differently now than when I was young, but when I started studying in Barcelona, I studied with three different maestri at the same time. I’d finish with one and go on to the next. My idea was that instead of having 10 pieces of wisdom from one, I had 10 pieces of wisdom from three, so I had 30. Then I had to choose which were good from the 30.
When you are sitting in the theater and one singer pleases you, ask how they do it. I always did that. I’d go to the dressing room and the singer would say, “Have a seat!” I’d say, “I’m about to do Boccanegra. How do I do this? How do I do that?”
I asked a lot of questions. I asked how to do things.
I don’t believe any one of them [his three teachers] did me harm, and they all knew I was studying with the others. Nothing was under the table. They were all voice teachers, rather than coaches.
I didn’t do a lot of exercises, but I worked on the phrases until they were beautiful. Even with a coach, it wasn’t just, “Take a breath here, take a breath there.” It was more, “Try this color, try that vowel.”
Any characters who at first you didn’t like or identify with, and if so, how did you deal with that to be able to portray them?
I remember in 1978, I did 10 new operas, staged. I’d get to one place and still be studying. Certainly, some I didn’t like as well. I studied a lot with the words, writing the words, even in Spanish. When I write, I see more sense in the words. [It’s important to] always give the sense to the words, because the words in the opera world are essential. You have to understand what you’re saying. You have to transmit the feeling—love, hatred—the feeling of the soul. If not, it means nothing.
Did you always have an interest in opera, or was it something you grew to like? And what music did you grow up with?
No. I was born on a small island [Minorca], and even now there are only 7,000 people on the whole island. I was from an average family, not well off. I always had a passion for the voice, however, even as a little boy, when I studied with the priest.
I sang in the chorus in church, where my father also sang as a bass. As a little kid, I always went with my dad to rehearsals. When I heard something in Italian, I’d say, “I didn’t understand that,” and I didn’t like it.
When I finished military service—and there we studied singing zarzuelas and things like that, in Spanish, of course—I started a course at the church, and in 1970 I went to Barcelona to do two performances (I was a soloist in the choir). There was a man from the theater in Barcelona who heard me. On a Monday I talked to the director of the theater [and he wanted me to] do an audition on Tuesday, but I said, “No, I have to leave today.” So Monday morning I did the audition. I sang zarzuelas. I’d never sung opera. That maestro became my main teacher. He got me working in Minorca, helped me study at the conservatory [and helped me] to be near singers, to see how they put on makeup, how they sing, how they warm up.
I left my job. I was engaged and wanted to get married that same year, in September. I said, “I’ll try it for a year. If it goes well, OK. If not, I’ll return to what I was doing.” So we put off our wedding for a year to see if it would work. My wife also sang in the chorus.
[A year later] we were married on a Saturday and went to the theater Monday. We never even did a honeymoon. And then every year I sang a little more—every year, a different opera.
I always had the high notes. The problem was I had no low notes. They always said, “Oh, you’re young, with time it’ll come.” But the bass notes didn’t—the real low notes, that is. And then I did three performances of Macbeth. For the first performance I sang the Assassin, but then for the second performance the bass was sick, so I had to learn his role in two days. They gave me a pianist for 24 hours, and in two days I learned the big bass role of Banquo in Macbeth. So I did Banquo.
Every year, I’d do a little more. Small roles, too, all the small roles. But that was a way of always staying on stage, too.
It sounds like learning music quickly has been very helpful to you in your career. What is your technique for learning music so quickly?
I study many hours. I always write the words, all the words. I see the text really clearly then. I go to get coffee and read the words. Memorization comes quicker that way.
How did you balance having a family and a performance career? It seems like both were happening at the same time.
I had the fortune that my wife loved singing also. In Minorca, she sang in the choir. She has a really good ear. She’s always saying, “Careful of that note; careful of this.” Nothing gets away from her. Since I liked [singing] so much, she also understood. In life you have to make sacrifices.
We have four children. In the first years, when we moved to Barcelona with four kids, it was hard. She’d come to the debuts, the opening nights, see the last rehearsals, be there for the opening, and then leave.
All four kids studied at Barcelona, at the university, so up until [age] 18 they were all at home. Once the last one left the nest, though, she [his wife] could go with me all the time. Now she’s always with me.
Of all the music you’ve sung—opera, concerto, recital—what has been the most rewarding for you to sing?
There are moments in life that you can point to, debuts being one. There are a lot of roles I like. As a singer, [I would say] Boccanegra. As a singing actor, I would say Falstaff or Scarpia.
The opera I sang most, and the one role I still sing (and which gives me great satisfaction) is Scarpia in Tosca. I’ve had great reviews. I’ve sung Scarpia about 500 times. Falstaff, too.
What is your favorite part of teaching or giving masterclasses?
I like when [students] understand right away. Sometimes it’s hard to explain right away how [the voice] is supposed to spin. I try to imitate what they do to have them understand what it sounds like. If you see that there’s a change right away . . . you hope that they have the virtue to be able to get it, to grasp it, to go with it. I hope to hear that they’ve understood something and can recapture it.
You might have a stage director or maestro who says, “You have to sing with control and an even sound.” Saying that is easy. It’s doing it that’s hard.
How are things different, do you think, for young singers today, as compared to when you were coming into your career, and what do they face now that young singers may not have faced then?
It seems easier today, but it becomes harder. You have the media, everywhere. What more and more people have asked for is a pretty girl, a handsome man. Now, perhaps, the scale has tipped toward a pretty person rather than a pretty voice, but the basics are missing.
One great singer said, “Let’s hope we still find great ones in a few years, because they are disappearing.” You have to know yourself well, be in command of yourself, be a little calm, and be very critical of yourself. Because if you say, “I’m the best,” you’re already there [you’ve already arrived], and you don’t make strides.
A lot of good singers are good at criticizing others but not themselves.
Have you seen any changes in the opera world since you began?
There have been a lot. During a career you see all types of changes. In the beginning of my career, I’d arrive at the theater and the very first thing that would happen would be a musical rehearsal. Now, the first thing they do is 15 days of staging rehearsals. I don’t really like that, because the stage directors want to change things and the conductors have to wait.
How do you balance the technical aspect of singing with the expression it also needs?
When you perform opera . . . [you are] . . . already pretty much technically set. When you study a new role, you start at the beginning of your studies to have an idea about the person you’re singing. . . . [After you’ve studied, what you’ve learned comes] together to form the person that you’re going to sing. Those ideas come together.
Know exactly what you’re singing. I insist you know every word. If not, you’re like a parrot, repeating.
Do you have any rituals on performance days?
In the long path of a career, one does many things. In the beginning, when I’d have performances at night, that was one story. Now it’s a different story. In the morning I like to take a little walk. I like to try to forget I even have a performance. In the afternoon, either in the apartment or the hotel, I go over things that I’m singing that night. I get up very early, 7 or 7:30. I sleep little. If I slept a lot, I’d be a really great tenor!
Before a performance, what time do you start warming up and how long does it take you to feel ready?
I go to the theater an hour early, but before that, I already know how I feel. Putting the costume and makeup on helps. Twenty minutes before [curtain time] I vocalize on the hardest phrases of the score.
Throughout my career, I’ve vocalized very little. I start out with the hardest phrase in the score, and try to make it beautiful and get the placement right. And sometimes it isn’t right. That’s why you have to be very exacting.
I’m very critical of myself. It bothers me, upsets me, and I get angry with myself. People say, “great, great,” and I know it wasn’t. I always think one can do better. Usually I’ll exit [the stage] and be very upset about two things I did wrong, rather than happy about all the great things I did. Naturally, you mustn’t say, “Oh, I goofed,” yet you must know you did.
How long do you usually need to prepare a role for the stage, and how long do you need to brush up on a role you already know?
I like to study and leave it. Then take it up again, and other ideas come. Sometimes there’s not enough time to do that. I debuted 10 really important roles in 1978. It’s not ideal and you don’t want to have to do that.
What is it like in different opera houses, different countries?
There are different stories in different countries. You shouldn’t think about that, though, because it doesn’t help. Some audiences are more passionate about opera and more spontaneous in their responses.
Can you talk a little about stage fright and how, if you’ve experienced it, you’ve dealt with it?
The first role I did in Barcelona was Barnaba in La gioconda. Two phrases, that’s the role. I still remember them. They come at the end of the first act and they’re very important words. All the attention is on that character. The orchestra stops, and the organ starts. Everyone on stage is looking at that one person. I had these little bitty candies that I would suck on, because I had a very dry mouth, like cotton. Fortunately, instead of my voice trembling, my leg did.
It’s a very hard career. The first time is always the worst. You get used to a theater, too. They call you at La Scala [for example]. That might eat at your brain for a while, getting called to La Scala. It’s the name “La Scala” that does the work [on your nerves]. Singing in that type of theater, you’ve got to have really calm nerves.
Is it more important to rest or keep your energy going during intermission? What do you do?
I take a break, change my costume, fix my makeup. I don’t like to chat in my dressing room or have people come visit.
If you could say one thing to young singers, what would it be?
Ask, ask, always ask questions.
