A week ago, just as the NATS convention was ending, I received news via Facebook (thank you, Kim Torrey, a school mate from Luther) that my voice teacher at Luther, David Greedy, had just passed away. There was something almost poetic about hearing this news at a moment when I was working hard on my craft as a voice teacher and thinking about my own journey as a singer/ teacher and reflecting on who had been most important to me along the way.
I first have to say that I am so lucky in who I’ve had as voice teachers in my life, beginning with Cherie Carl- my private teacher during high school back in Atlantic, Iowa. What are the odds that I could move to a little town of 9000 in southwestern Iowa and find an absolutely first-rate private voice teacher, well schooled in the world of opera, able to unlock the voice that was at that point largely hidden in my spindly little body, waiting to be unleashed? Cherie was such a teacher and with every passing year I grow more appreciative of her – and realize more and more that the crossing of our paths was a miracle, pure and simple. Cherie knew there was a voice inside me and unlocked it in spectacular fashion- and also did so much to deepen my self-confidence at a time when I was still terribly shy and awkward. (Let’s be frank- I was to Awkward what Mt. Rushmore is to monuments.) But I left Cherie’s studio feeling like there was nothing I couldn’t do. She believed in me like no one had ever believed in me before- and she sincerely believed that I had been blessed with one of the best young baritone voices she had ever heard in her life. And she was also an incredibly vibrant person with a hilarious personality as well as a deep religious faith, so a voice lesson with her a more than a voice lesson. . . it was a time for side-splitting laughter, deep spiritual reflection, and so much more.
I say all that to help you understand the jarring shock to my system when I went to Luther and had my first voice lesson with David Greedy. I was half expecting that when he heard the first sounds out of my mouth, he would genuflect and pronounce me the best young baritone he had ever heard.
Didn’t happen.
Not even close.
Compliments from Mr. Greedy were few and far between, and I can’t ever remember him doing cartwheels over anything I did. . . or at least not in the customary way. In some ways the most sincere compliment he gave was when you sang something well, he would stare at you for a moment or two in silence, then finally say – in a rather flat tone of voice, with scarcely a trace of a smile – “Okay . . . (brief pause) . . . What else?” But to earn even that simple “okay” meant working hard on whatever was the issue at hand, which mostly meant eliminating tension and extra effort from my singing. “Let the breath do it” was the phrase I heard more often than any other in my lessons, and he and I worked very hard to make that happen. We would also work hard to achieve what he called the proper “balance of resonance”- where the sound rings with the right balance of depth and brightness and in perfect tune. He was also really anxious that I not swallow up my sound in an effort to sound bigger and darker and older than I really was- a common tendency among young baritones with big voices.
What did not concern Mr. Greedy- at least with me- was anatomy. I don’t ever remember him talking about the various parts of the throat, for instance – about the larynx or vocal folds. The only body part I ever remember him mentioning to me by name was the tongue, since I apparently sang with too much tongue tension. One of his favorite means of ascertaining if my tongue was tense was when he would take his thumb and stick it up and behind my chin, right in the middle of the lower jaw – where more often than not it would meet with a tight, hard ball of resistance that would be my tongue. Then he would grab my hand and place my thumb in the same position behind his chin- and he would sing a big, ringing sound with not an iota of tension detectable. “HOW DO YOU DO THAT?!?!” I felt like screaming, but mostly I just smiled and nodded and vowed to development that same sense of release in my singing. (Still working on that, by the way.)
He had his phrases that were such fun – and one of them he used a lot in my lessons was how a singer might “foul their nest” if they didn’t properly prepare a phrase or take a deep enough breath. That’s a pretty good example of what made his persona so unique…. that he was in some ways the most ordinary-looking guy, but he had this touch of formality and elegance in the way he expressed himself, which could so quickly and easily morph into his off-the-wall sense of humor. I don’t remember seeing much of that in the early going – but by the time I was a senior, I had relaxed enough in his presence – and vice versa – for us to enjoy an easy rapport.
One thing I loved about his philosophy as a teacher was that he sincerely believed that what mattered in a singer becoming better was not what happened in the lesson- but in what happened the other six days of the week. He saw his role primarily as a discerning listener, so that when I did something right he could say ‘That’s it! That’s what your high notes need to sound like!” And then in the next breath, he would say ‘now you need to go into the practice room and find a way to do that more naturally.” He believed in the importance of a singer basically going into the practice room and “playing” – experimenting – trying things – getting to know one’s voice on the most intimate sort of level – and building your technique from the inside out rather than from the outside in. . . in effect, tearing down the old, counter- productive habits and building new, better habits in their place. It places far more responsibility on the singer’s own shoulders, which is as it should be.
I speak warmly and appreciatively of him now, but in those first weeks of my freshman year, I struggled mightily. He was nothing like Cherie Carl had been, and after three years of her generous affirmation, it was devastating for me to have a voice teacher who seemed to me to be barely stifling a yawn, so unimpressed did he seem to be with my voice. I got so frustrated that I actually went to my faculty advisor, David Judisch (another voice teacher at Luther, who I had watched teach since I accompanied several of his students) and told him that I wanted to switch to his voice studio because his style was much like the style of my previous teacher. But much to Mr. Judisch’s credit, he said “No way! David Greedy is a fine teacher and you have not given him a fair chance. If you are still this unhappy at the end of the semester, we’ll talk again.” About a month later, I won first place in the freshman men’s division of the state NATS competition, and suddenly felt like maybe David Greedy knew something about singing after all . . . and banished all thoughts of switching out of his studio.
I stuck with him and he stuck with me right to the end of my senior year. One more memory. . . A number of people made the trip from faraway Atlantic (five hours away) to attend my senior recital. . . and they were seated in the audience when a guy came tramping out on to the stage to move the piano, open up the lid, etc. He was not dressed up at all, with a v-neck sweater worn over a white t-shirt – one of his favorite outfits. My mom leaned over to Cherie and another friend of the family and whispered “that’s Greg’s voice teacher, David Greedy.” Those two friends looked at each other and then back at her with complete bewilderment because they would have guessed that this guy was a janitor, not a highly regarded college voice teacher. The moral of the story? Great voice teachers come in all shapes, sizes, and styles. And it took me awhile, but I came to realize that David Greedy was a great voice teacher and I was incredibly fortunate to be one of his students.
And the morning after I heard the news of his death, at the business meeting that closed out the NATS convention, we stood at one point to observe a few moments of silence while the names were read of all the NATS members who had passed away since our last convention. I’d never stuck around for the closing meeting before, so I knew nothing about this custom- so it obviously never occurred to me to notify anybody there about his death. But then lo and behold, in the midst of that surprisingly long list of names of voice teachers who had recently died, there was David Greedy’s name . . . so someone had heard the news and made sure that his name was included in that memorial tribute. In that moment when his name was read, I found myself overwhelmed with feelings of gratitude and humility… embarrassed that I had jumped to such unfortunate conclusions about him, relieved that Dr. Judisch had insisted that I stick it out, pleased that I came to appreciate Mr. Greedy, sorry that I didn’t work even harder to make the most of my gifts, and sad that I didn’t take many more opportunities over the years after Luther to thank him for all I learned from him.
pictured above: I wish I had a photo of Mr. Greedy and me – but this one is really fun as a substitute. It shows Mr. Greedy in the role of Papageno the Bird Catcher in Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” – with my wonderful classmate Annette (Kirkpatrick) de la Torre as Papagena, the women of his dreams. This production occurred our junior year. At the time I was sad (and a bit miffed) that Mr. Greedy took the role of Papageno for himself. (I would have loved to have sung the role myself.) It turns out that he had been diagnosed with a throat condition that threatened to end his singing days- which is why he felt compelled to take this role and enjoy one more performance on stage. As it turns out, he was hilarious – and it was a privilege to see him in action. And he and Annette made a delightful couple.