Waking Hours

Soprano Ailish Tynan

There is no alarm any more, because the baby just cries and we hop out of bed like we’ve heard gunshots. Daisy is 22 months. Then, once the dog hears the baby is up, he starts barking, because he doesn’t want to miss out on the action. And then she starts crying, because she wants to see the dog. It’s all a bit of a shock to the system.

Daisy is our first baby. I was nearly 42 when I had her. I’d had this lovely life beforehand that was all about me and my voice. I’m a soprano. You’d work late at night, and then you mightn’t get up until 11am. Now, suddenly, you’re up every morning at 7am, and you don’t know whether you’re coming or going.

We go downstairs and have porridge for breakfast. Then Daisy will be looked after like a queen, and dressed up beautifully. Two hours later, I’ll catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like someone who has been dragged through a bush. Then I think ‘I better do something’ because we have to walk the dog in the park.

We live in a house in south-east London. My husband, Keith, is a bass trombone player at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. He’s a great help with Daisy. I have to say, as men go, he’s phenomenal. I don’t think I would have wanted to marry any of my brothers.

I was in a production of Fidelio in Covent Garden and Keith was in the orchestra. Normally, opera singers have nothing to do with the orchestra, because the orchestra all think that the singers are well up themselves.

I’d been in the opera house for four years, and the first time I ever saw Keith was in the pub. When you’re singing on stage, you’re not looking down at the orchestra pit; you’re looking up to heaven, praying that the high notes come out.

I’m not your typical soprano, and I’m not terribly precious. Life is too short to be going round worrying about looking after your voice all the time.

When I saw Keith in the pub, I thought, ‘He’s terrible miserable looking’. Some of the people of the chorus I was out with had invited him along. I thought, ‘Lord god, you’re not going to bring misery guts with us. He’ll just ruin the whole night.’ So I said to him, ‘Look it, I don’t know what your story is, but you better cheer up, because I’m out to enjoy myself, and I don’t want you dragging us down.’ He just burst out laughing.

He gave me a piggyback down the street to the nightclub we were all going to, and I was delighted that I’d met an even bigger lunatic than myself. That was 11 years ago. I’m totally mad about him. I haven’t diluted my feelings for him one tiny bit.

Going to the park with Daisy is my favourite part of the day. I never wear a scrap of make-up when I’m not working, because when you are opera singing, you are in wigs, and you have all the heavy make-up on. So when I’m off, it’s such a relief not to put any of it on.

I’d be up in the park in an auld tracksuit, and I wouldn’t even have the hair brushed. I’m just out to enjoy the day. I’m more into the dog community than the mothers. I get bored listening to them talking about fancy buggies. The dog people are more realistic about life. All they ever seem to talk about is Brexit.

In the afternoons, Daisy will go down for a nap. That’s the plan, anyway. If I’m wrecked, I’ll lie down myself. But if I’m not, I’ll use that time to cram in some work.

Learning new music is all a process. First of all, you start with the language, if it’s in German or French. You have to know what every single word means, so I get word-for-word translations. Then you start talking the text to get the rhythm, and then you go on to sing it.

The singing bit is tricky now. In the past, I’d stick on Spotify in the kitchen, and sing away at full pelt. I’d say my neighbours love me. But I can’t do that any more.

Keith often comes home in the middle of the day — he’ll have a morning rehearsal and an evening show. So he’ll entertain Daisy, and I’ll then get my chance to blast the neighbours.

It’s a bit of an ongoing battle, because the dog wants to sing along. I was doing an audition for Mimi [La Boheme] for Covent Garden, so I was in the middle of trying to practise some Puccini in the kitchen. I’ll shout ‘squirrel’ in the middle of the phrase. I have to do this because, when I get to the high notes, the dog starts howling like mad. And you can’t hear your own airs. The only thing that distracts him is ‘squirrel’, so he’ll run out into the garden for 30 seconds, so I can practise the phrase. It’s mayhem.

The last thing I did in Covent Garden was The Nose by Shostakovich. Daisy was in my belly at the time. The opera was all about a fella who lost his nose

“I met my husband in the pub. He gave me a piggyback to the nightclub. I knew it was meant to be”

and the nose has developed a personality and becomes the most important person in town.

You’re standing on stage and we’re all singing our heads off. The next thing, a giant nose starts coming down out of the top of the theatre and we’re all singing praises to it. And you think, ‘Jesus, this isn’t normal’.

I used to think that this was a ridiculous job. But the older I get, the more I realise that it brings a special kind of joy to people. And I love it. My voice has changed since I had Daisy. It’s become richer. Now I’m a lyric soprano, and I can do new roles. It’s an exciting time.

Soprano Ailish Tynan performs songs by Schumann, Mozart and Schubert in Music for Galway Midwinter Festival, Swansong: Intimations of Mortality, today at 3pm in Galway’s Town Hall Theatre. For bookings, tel: (091) 705-962