“Morning, Mayhew,” he would say. “Let’s find out if your voice survived the night.”
We worked on breath.
Then posture.
Then vowels.
Then control.
He was not gentle.
“Do not throw a note at the ceiling,” he barked from the back row. “Aim it.”
Again.
“Your shoulders are not invited to sing.”
Again.
“Support the phrase. Don’t beg it to stay alive.”
Again.
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