Call Me Debbie: True Confessions of a Down-to-Earth Diva (23 page)

Because, despite the anguish and pain we all endure in our lives, I believe that blessings, grace, and beauty are possible. Both in this world and in the next—for Melinda for sure, and maybe even for a wretch like me.

THE HURRICANE WINDS
that would wreak havoc around my Florida condo in the fall of 2004 began swirling around me earlier that spring. The infamous “Little Black Dress” episode that brought me to the attention of the non-opera-going public, and which, in a very profound way, changed my life, crept up on me unexpectedly.

I had been scheduled to sing
Ariadne
, which had by now become a signature role for me, in a revival production at Covent Garden when my manager, Andrea Anson, got word that the director had a casting change of heart. He wanted to take a more “modern” approach to the opera, they said, and in his new vision he decided that Ariadne should wear what fashion observers know as “the little black dress.” My childhood idol, the petite Audrey Hepburn, made hers iconic in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. Now tipping the scales at 330 pounds, I did not fit the director’s idea of this new, svelte Ariadne who wore a size “little” of anything. To put it bluntly: I didn’t fit the dress.

To put it even more bluntly, the Covent Garden people told Andrea that I was too fat for the role. It’s really amazing that in this day and age someone can get away with saying those words. Telling a
woman she’s too fat for a job may be the last prejudicial statement, the last ugly judgment, that people think it’s okay to make. Unlike the areas of gender, ethnicity, age, and religion—it’s still open season on overweight women.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been told by a director that I was too hefty for a part, of course; it’s happened several times. It’s even happened when how I looked shouldn’t matter. About ten years earlier, I auditioned for legendary conductor Sir Georg Solti for a recording he was planning to do of Tristan. At eighty-plus years of age, he was still handsome, lean, and fit—the kind of man who never gained a pound. When I think of him, I always remember a rumor I’d heard that he’d have great, torrid romances with opera singers and when he was done, he’d give each one a white grand piano as a parting gift.

I auditioned for Maestro Solti in a big rehearsal room in London, and when I’d finished I knew I’d sung very well, and so did he.

“That was beautiful,” he said, with a smile—“you’d be a great Isolde.”

Then he got up from behind his desk and walked over to me. “Why are you so fat?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Is it the food?”

I was stunned. He was being rude, I felt, but at the same time he was genuinely puzzled and curious.

“Well, Maestro, it is the food, yes,” I answered. (What did he think, I was OD-ing on water and broccoli?) “But it’s other issues as well.”

He still looked confused, not understanding why someone would be this large on purpose. I was scheduled to see him again several months later for some concerts. “If you lose weight by the time I see you for Beethoven’s Ninth,” he said, “you can have the job.”

And this was for a recording, I must point out—I didn’t even have to appear on stage! No one was even going to see me! Still, the legendary conductor didn’t want to be associated with a fat broad, even if you only saw my photo on the CD cover.

(P.S., I lost weight and got the job, but he passed away soon after so we never did the recording).

If a director for a stage production complains about my weight, usually the opera house boldly steps in and supports me, overriding the director’s decision, and the quality of my singing trumps the readout on my scale. Since I was currently considered the Ariadne of choice in the opera world, you’d think in this instance my voice would be more important than my dress size.

Plus, they knew me well at the Royal Opera House. I’d sung there twice before—once with Pavarotti (when he did his disappearing act during our duet in
Ballo
in ’95) and the second time in
Die Frau ohne Schatten
in 2001. It was no secret to anyone what I looked like when I signed on for the role; it’s not like the director hired a new singer from a headshot. Covent Garden’s artistic administrator, Peter Katona, could have easily, and should have, told the director to alter the dress and get on with it. But that didn’t happen. Even though I had a signed and fully executed contract, they wanted to recast the role.

“Fine,” Andrea told them.

Andrea wasn’t the brash, in-your-face Herbert Breslin type. He came from an aristocratic British family on his father’s side—his brother was in Princess Diana’s wedding party, for heaven’s sake! And his gorgeous Italian mother came from a well-to-do family in Rome where they still had an enormous family estate that he visited regularly in the off-season. Andrea embodied elegance, efficiency, and a Zenlike confidence and spirituality.

“What role,” he calmly asked the Covent Garden people, “do you intend to give Debbie to sing instead?”

Common protocol dictated that if an opera house removed a vocalist with a fully executed contract from a part, they were required to offer another role of equal “value” or pay out the contract in full.

“We don’t have anything,” they told him.

There was a pause on Andrea’s end. Some back-and-forth ensued—the details of which he never disclosed to me because he’s a gentleman—before Andrea swiftly insisted upon arrangements for my payout. I was hurt about the situation, for sure, but I had no intention of making a fuss over it. Andrea handled the legal particulars and the case was closed.

Until a few months later, when I gave an interview to a reporter from a major London daily to publicize an upcoming recital. I went to dinner with my new publicist, Albert Imperato, at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in New York, and the reporter was meeting me there after dinner. Albert has the swarthy good looks of an Italian male model coupled with the bright eyes, energy, and enthusiasm of a rambunctious kid. He was excited about the interview, and after dinner he made the introductions and waited at the bar while I chatted with the reporter. Had he stayed at the table, who knows what might have turned out differently—the interview, my weight, my life! As it was, I was alone with the reporter and I was in a truth-telling mood. All was going swimmingly until the reporter asked:

“So when will you come back to sing at the Royal Opera House?”

I hemmed and hawwed. I hadn’t spoken about the incident to the media, and I wasn’t sure if I should. Because my contract to sing Ariadne was for a future season that hadn’t been announced yet, no one knew of my casting of and subsequent
un
-casting from the role. What happened wasn’t hushed up, per se . . . but I’m sure the Royal Opera House never thought I’d speak of it, and neither did I for that matter. We all thought it would just go away.

But he asked, and now he was waiting.
Hummanahummanahummana
. I didn’t know what to say. They say the truth shall set you free, so I leaned in that direction.

“Well, I don’t think I’m coming back,” I answered.

The reporter’s eyes widened. “Why not?”

“Well . . . I was supposed to be back to sing Ariadne, and . . .”

“What happened?”

“They decided I wouldn’t ‘work’ in their production.”

The reporter leaned in.

“You wouldn’t
work
? What does
that
mean?”

He knew he was on to something. He knew I was one of the leading Ariadnes in the world and that what I was saying made no sense. As I sat there, trying to explain, I was getting pissed off thinking about it—maybe I was having a delayed reaction. What should I say to this guy? That Covent Garden didn’t think I was talented enough? That they couldn’t find anything else for me to sing? Or should I say I didn’t want to sing there? Should I lie?
Why should I protect them?
The only thing left to say, the only thing I could say, was the truth. I didn’t think about the fallout.

“They said I was too fat,” I told him. “I’m too fat for their concept.”

And that was it. The minute I said it, the beans came spilling out. I didn’t think they would fall further than the local London papers. I didn’t imagine the interview would go around the world, reaching Dubai, Thailand, . . .

I went over to the bar after the interview and told Albert what had happened. I saw a fraction of a second of worry on his handsome face, then he brushed it aside. “I’m sure everything will be fine,” he said, in his
molto
positive way.

Two weeks later, while I was performing in Switzerland, Albert rang me up.

“Um, Deb. That interview you gave? It’s taken on a life of its own. I just wanted to warn you that you might be getting some calls from the ladies and gentlemen of the press.”

Then the media hurricane hit, and hit hard.

After I hung up with Albert, my phone rang nonstop. I got interview requests from every major news publication in the world and landed on the couch of
Good Morning America
to discuss the new hot topic: Has Opera Gone Too Hollywood? A lot of people, especially Covent Garden’s music director, Tony Pappano, believed I’d
released the story to get publicity because I had a CD,
Obsessions
, coming out around that time. I only
wish
I was that smart!

My firing was making such big news because it baffled people. We lived in the world where “it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” and people expected their opera singers to be big. I wasn’t an actress expected to starve for a TV role on
Ally McBeal
. So to hear that an opera singer, of all people, would be fired for being too fat—not to mention an internationally famous singer in a role she was internationally famous for singing—was ludicrous, even to non-opera lovers.

And while we’re on the topic, why is it okay for the male opera stars to be big and not the women? The double standard is alive and well in the opera world when it comes to men’s and women’s bodies. When I was singing Wagner’s
Lohengrin
at the Met a few years earlier with plus-sized tenor Ben Heppner, I got my foot caught in my dress as I was getting up off the floor of the stage. It was embarrassing, to be sure, but it’s the kind of thing that happens, to big girls and little girls alike. The review in one newspaper the next day reported that “Voigt’s performance was impeded by her girth,” while “Ben Heppner had the shoulders of a linebacker.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve read articles that praise the huggable, teddy-bear roundness of Pavarotti.

Yet today, in retrospect, I can understand why Covent Garden didn’t want me in the role. When I look back at pictures of myself that year, I look like a poster child for obesity. True, there are actual physical reasons why opera singers are traditionally big in stature—having a bigger chest cavity is often what gives a vocalist the depth, range, and strength to sing those powerful arias. But if a person is grossly obese, it becomes distracting. If you walk out onstage at 400 pounds, it’s like seeing a drunk alcoholic or a stoned drug addict in front of you—you see the problem, the addiction, not the performance.

Did the firing influence me to do something about my weight?
No. I had been trying since I was seventeen to lose weight in every way imaginable. And at the time when I lost that role I’d already consulted with a doctor about gastric bypass surgery. The irony is that the fee Covent Garden paid me for not singing gave me the money and the time to do the surgery.

But first, one has to poke a little fun at the whole craziness, no?

A month after the media exploded with the story, I made my Carnegie Hall recital debut. What better arena in which to make a statement?

When I walked out onstage to thunderous applause, you could feel the question hanging in the air: Is she going to say something about it or not? You betcha. I waited until the end of the evening, until my encore, when I sang a parody song called “Wagner Roles.” It was written by Ben Moore, who’s penned several songs I’ve recorded (two years later, Ben would also write the parody, “We’re Very Concerned,” which I sang at Joe Volpe’s retirement tribute gala). In the lyrics for “Wagner Roles,” I lament about how I’m only offered Wagner roles and why can’t I sing something light and fun? Like Rossini? Or Johann Strauss, instead of the darker, more brooding Richard?

Then I sing the line:

“And this business we’re in, well, it’s really a mess;
not to mention the deal with the little black dress . . .”

The hall went nuts. The audience cheered and yelled so loudly, I had to stop singing because I couldn’t hear anything. It was great fun, and my way to provide a little humor to the situation and say: Let’s get past this now and put on a show.

THE NIGHT BEFORE
I went under the knife for gastric bypass surgery—it was July 2004—I had a “last meal” the same way a convict on death row does before execution. I ate a thick medium-rare steak and baked potato, downed a few cocktails, and scarfed down a gigantic dessert smothered with whipped cream. It felt like saying goodbye to best friends who’d been there for me in my times
of need, but now I was moving on, to another life, and might never see them again.

From the moment I woke up, the weight, as they say, fell off me. The first week I was eating half a jar of baby food for each meal—pureed chicken, beef, vegetables—and I lost ten pounds. It was the easiest “diet” I’d ever been on, because the most shocking thing happened. I’d take a few spoonfuls of the baby food and
feel full
. I don’t know if I’d ever really felt full before in my life. If anything, I had a new problem: how to eat enough to get the calories I needed to stay healthy. That was a new one.

Every day when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I saw myself disappearing. Or maybe it was simply that the real Debbie was emerging from underneath layers and years of pain eating. The Germans have a brilliant word for the fat gained when you eat from sadness:
Kummerspeck
, which translates literally as “grief fat”—or, “grief bacon,” or even “sad pig lard.” Ouch. Way back, when that voice teacher at Chapman College would force me to look in the mirror as I sang and I’d burst into tears, that’s exactly what I was seeing when I looked at myself—grief fat.