They say the family that sings together, stays together. As much as I dislike clichés, my family was probably the one that inspired that saying in the first place.
My father, John, my sister, Katie, and I have been performing concerts together for just over a year. Dad and I are both professional singers and Katie is an oboist who has chosen for a career to pursue her first love, environmental science.
We put together our first concert partially on a whim and partially as the culmination of a dream my father has had for 25 years. We had no precedents to follow, no expectations to live up to, so we put together whatever music we wanted to perform: opera arias, oboe solos, spirituals, and folk songs from different countries. In our ads, we tagged the concert as: “An evening of classical music, sacred song, and a few unexpected twists…”
The decision to do that first concert stemmed from three desires. First, we wanted an arena in which to perform and bring to life the music we love. Second, we dreamed of a setting to highlight social justice issues, urge reconciliation within our increasingly divided nation, and encourage community involvement. And third, we wanted to do both of the previous items while more than covering our expenses.
We’ve all been to concerts where the performance is technically perfect—but somehow it lacks the depth, personality and creativity of the performer, and is, for lack of a better word, boring. The opposite is true as well: Sometimes the audience members are so caught up in listening for technique that they miss the life in the performance altogether.
I first realized this at a recital in Carnegie Hall. The couple behind me was locked in an argument about whether the program order should have been different, since the performer was taking his tempos too slowly. I sat there grinding my teeth, because I had been moved deeply by the phrases and passion this particular performer had been able to sustain.
Suffice it to say, we wanted to create a concert that engaged people in such a way that both emotion and technique could be acknowledged—and then set aside—so that the music could simply be enjoyed. After all, what’s the fun of hearing glorious music if you can’t be transported to a better place—even if just for a moment—by the experience?
My father came to music somewhat reluctantly, though he certainly has embraced it and brought many roles to life, to great acclaim. King René from Iolanthe and Timur from Turandot are two roles he sings with compelling beauty and power. His ability to communicate as the bass soloist in Handel’s Messiah is “unparalleled,” as one co-performer once wrote. He grew up wanting to be an engineer or a scientist, but his dreams were steamrolled by an intense and unusual spiritual journey.
When at last he decided to pursue a career in classical music, he did it with determination and focus. After four years in the Air Force with the Singing Sergeants, he landed in the Minnesota Opera Studio, an experience he still talks about with fondness and frequency. When an autoimmune disease slowed his career, he was forced to trim his performing to a minimum. Through the years, he has become a well-known and well-respected member of the musical community in Spokane, the city in eastern Washington where I grew up.
My mother insists that I arrived in the world singing and dancing, but I can only say I’ve been singing “officially” since I sang the role of Amahl in Menotti’s Amahl and the Night Visitors, at age 13. That performance at our church, complete with orchestra and a professional principal cast, inducted me into the world of classical singing. No matter how much I loved to sing, however, an early knowledge of the joys and demands of a singing career caused me to see the work involved. Thus, I tried to avoid it as long as possible.
My degrees are not in music. I graduated from Whitworth College with a B.A. in cross-cultural studies and a minor in sociology. For the first four years after college, I worked in social service organizations and churches—but when I reached age 23, I knew I could avoid it no longer. I do love to sing, and I am a lyric coloratura soprano—one of those in the “dime a dozen” category. I knew age would work against me if I waited any longer to begin professional training.
I was first drawn to doing concerts “outside the box” when Dad and I both sang in a performance of The Magic Flute nearly four years ago. A New York-based opera company put on the opera in conjunction with the Kalispel Tribe of eastern Washington. Since the singspiel format of The Magic Flute meshed so well with the Native American tradition of storytelling, we performed the opera in the sacred powwow grounds of the tribe, with an elder of the tribe telling the story in both English and Salish. Native drumming and dancing also were woven into the story, all without changing any of Mozart’s music.
The performance was so unique that it captured the attention not only of several local and regional publications, but also of The New York Times and National Public Radio. The experience convinced me of the power that lies in bringing intentional creativity to a performance.
Katie could be a professional oboist if she so desired—but then again, half the beauty in her playing is that she doesn’t realize how good she is. She spends much of her life engaging groups in dialogue about the intersection of Christian faith and environmental concern. Her oboe playing reflects her spirit—kind of like the priest in the film The Mission, who brings an oboe to the jungle and plays it when approaching a hostile tribe he wishes to befriend. The effect is peaceful and inspiring.
Mom says she’s not a singer, but she grew up singing in gospel trios and in church. She’s someone who is quick to encourage, as well as wise and clear in her words. Without her, none of our musical careers would have the vibrancy or depth they have come to have.
Now along with being known for being very serious about making music, my family are known for our laughter. Whenever we’re together, whether in public or in private, we laugh much of the time. Katie and I tend to quote movies and Sondheim musicals at random points in conversation. We decided this flavor had to be present in our concerts as well. We wanted to create an atmosphere that was as intimate as inviting the audience to our family’s Thanksgiving table.
As the concert drew closer and closer, we all kept wondering: Would anyone show up? (Oh my gosh, what if no one shows up? Why would anyone want to show up—it’s just a family concert!) Yes, we’ve been involved in the musical life of Spokane for more than 20 years, and yes, we’ve put up posters and mailed out personal invitations and printed ads in church newsletters, but really, what does that have to do with the price of eggs? We all agreed that we were choosing to do this concert merely as an expression of ourselves—for the sake of doing it, period—not to impress anyone or to be able to put something new on our résumés.
Then came the night of that first concert. Dad, Katie and I stood backstage with our accompanist, Bonnie, listening to the sounds of the arriving audience, trying to estimate if there were more than a few dozen. We heard my mom step out to welcome everyone and encourage them to please turn off their cell phones.
Then it was our turn. I rounded the corner and saw a nearly full house—more than 400 people!
The concert went as close to flawlessly as any performance can go, complete with our “unexpected twists.” In the first half, we included a melodrama competition, featuring Dad singing Cyclops’ aria from Handel’s Acis and Galatea, me singing “Glitter and Be Gay,” and Katie performing one of the most outrageously show-offy pieces in the oboe repertoire, based on Donizetti’s opera La favorite.
In the second half, we demonstrated what a performer has to be ready to endure in a performance when anything is possible: scrims falling down backstage, wigs sliding off, or props disappearing, for example. For this illustration, Dad sang the very serious “Il lacerato spirito” from Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra (“the bass national anthem,” as he calls it), and Katie and I did everything in our power to distract him. We rolled up his pant legs, untucked his shirt, played with noisemakers left over from my performance of “The Doll Song,” and ultimately dragged up someone from the audience to help us tip him sideways so that he finished the aria parallel to the floor. True to form, he never missed a note or lost his focus, even though he had little idea ahead of time of what we were going to do.
By the end, we knew the concert was a hit. We had expected some amount of enthusiasm, but what caught our attention most of all was the repeated question, “Why aren’t more concerts like this?” As e-mails, letters and financial contributions continued to pour in through the following weeks, we had to ask ourselves: What was it that had captured people’s attention?
The music was the same as has been performed by hundreds or thousands of others, but in this context, we made it ours while seeking to be subservient to the intent of the composer. When Dad sang King René’s aria from Tchaikovsky’s Iolanthe, the audience felt the pain of a father bargaining with God for his daughter to have sight, partially due, I’m sure, to the fact that Dad has bargained much with God himself. When he sang Ken Medema’s “I See America,” the audience could feel Dad’s own longing and contagious passion for “all her people to be free.”
The classical music director from KPBX, our regional public radio station, wrote in one review, “The Frankhausers sing and play with such ease that the emphasis is clearly on the music and how it connects with the audience. One could almost feel the exhalation of an audience relieved to finally encounter music as pure emotion, art, and entertainment.”
To remain true to this idea of marking a performance with our own spirit, we held our first concerts at our home church, a place where we have invested much of our lives, and a beautiful performing space. The Spokane Symphony, the Northwest Bach Festival, and other classical music groups use it for concerts throughout the year. We also chose to perform in formal dress and to print formal programs.
Marketing ourselves has been the most challenging aspect of this endeavor. How do we move from that first successful concert into a successful business? How does one go about describing a unique concert experience when what you really want to say is, “Just come and see for yourself!” (Sounds like most of the auditions I’ve done, actually!)
In the momentum following the first concert, we designed a website—well, more accurately, Dad designed the website and built it from scratch. You can find us at www.frankhauserconcerts.com or with links to all our personal websites at www.frankhauser.com. On the site, we list not only the expected bios, reviews, and upcoming events, but also descriptions of how the vision for our concerts began, types of organizations for whom we’d like to perform, and ideas for future concerts.
In setting our budget for each concert, we dedicate a certain amount for our personal income. However, we decided early on that part of the uniqueness of our concerts would be keeping them available to everyone; our concerts are free of charge (donations gratefully accepted). In lieu of charging admission, we seek individual and business sponsors from within the community. Surprisingly, we’ve discovered we actually bring in slightly more money this way than we would through ticket sales.
In seeking sponsors, we begin by sending letters to people who have been long-time friends and those in the community who have repeatedly encouraged us in our individual careers. Then we target individuals and businesses that support other similar arts organizations, such as our city’s symphony and other regional classical music groups. A third letter goes to individuals and businesses for whom community involvement is important. In that letter, we emphasize our free admission policy, our varied musical styles, and our desire to draw attention to various social issues. At each concert, we print the names of our sponsors in our program.
Maintaining our relationships with those sponsors is paramount for future concerts. Making sure everyone receives a thank you letter is just the beginning. Keeping in touch throughout the year keeps the vision fresh. To some businesses, I hand-deliver the thank you, and to some I like to send postcards from other locations where I myself, or we as a family, are performing.
We also want to invest in the larger
community, not just gain sponsors. In our last concert, we commissioned a local composer to set a text we love into a piece written for our voices. Another local composer happily rearranged one of his gospel arrangements specifically for us. (Finding trios for bass and two sopranos has not been the easiest endeavor!) For future concerts, we are developing ideas on how to highlight specific musicians from each of the cities to which we’ve been invited.
Thus far, we have not had to seek new venues and cities in which to perform; we have as many invitations as we can handle. These venues typically tend to be churches, due to the nature of our specific concert. However, when we do come to that time to seek new places, we will specifically target churches and universities. We desire to perform at universities to (we hope) inspire music students to think creatively about their own recitals and concerts as they launch their careers.
Performing, as we all know, is both an art and a science. It requires your heart and your mind, your creativity—and your checkbook. When a person becomes the producer as well as the performer, keeping the art and the science in balance becomes an art unto itself!
As a performer, I love that moment when I’m standing backstage before a performance, that moment when the lights go dim, the audience falls silent, and the sense of anticipation becomes palpable. I always feel excitement and amazement in that one moment and it never fails to energize me. That moment is even more poignant when I’m standing backstage with members of my own family, preparing to walk out together.
Kresha recently moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where she is enjoying learning how to be a proper Canadian. In addition to traveling for auditions and performances, she returns yearly to El Salvador to hang out with kids in outlying villages. When at home, she loves to cook feasts for friends and neighbors.
John is well known and well loved by audiences who know him. Offstage, he is an active leader in community organizations. He has recently been elected treasurer of the newly formed Anuak Justice Council, an international group dedicated to bringing an end to the campaign of genocide directed against the Anuak tribe of Ethiopia.
Katie graduated from Western Washington University in 2003 with a degree in environmental science and a minor in music. She has spent the last two summers absorbing the culture and history of South Africa as a facilitator with the South Africa Community Fund. She currently lives in Belize.
