Diagnosed with a lower limb disability at birth, Ronan Tynan had his legs amputated below the knee when he was twenty years old. Eight weeks later, he was climbing the stairs of his college dorm, and within a year, he was winning races in the Paralympic Games, amassing eighteen gold medals and fourteen world records. After becoming the first disabled person ever admitted to the National College of Physical Education, he served a short stint in the prosthetics industry and began a new career in medicine. He continued his studies at Trinity College, where he specialized in orthopedic sports injuries.
After earning his medical degree, Ronan chose music for the next act in his life. Less than one year after he began studying voice, he won both the John McCormick Cup for Tenor Voice and the BBC talent show Go for It. He went on to win the prestigious International Operatic Singing Competition in France, and in 1998 his debut Sony album, My Life Belongs to You, became a top-five hit in England within just two weeks and eventually went platinum. Later that year, he was invited to join The Irish Tenors, furthering a journey that started in a small Irish village and has brought him to the world's grandest stages.
In Halfway Home, Tynan movingly describes his life story, which Barbara Walters called "so amazing you may find it hard to believe."
Diagnosed with a lower limb disability at birth, Ronan Tynan had his legs amputated below the knee when he was twenty years old. Eight weeks later, he was climbing the stairs of his college dorm, and within a year, he was winning races in the Paralympic Games, amassing eighteen gold medals and fourteen world records. After becoming the first disabled person ever admitted to the National College of Physical Education, he served a short stint in the prosthetics industry and began a new career in medicine. He continued his studies at Trinity College, where he specialized in orthopedic sports injuries.
After earning his medical degree, Ronan chose music for the next act in his life. Less than one year after he began studying voice, he won both the John McCormick Cup for Tenor Voice and the BBC talent show Go for It. He went on to win the prestigious International Operatic Singing Competition in France, and in 1998 his debut Sony album, My Life Belongs to You, became a top-five hit in England within just two weeks and eventually went platinum. Later that year, he was invited to join The Irish Tenors, furthering a journey that started in a small Irish village and has brought him to the world's grandest stages.
In Halfway Home, Tynan movingly describes his life story, which Barbara Walters called "so amazing you may find it hard to believe."
eBook
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Diagnosed with a lower limb disability at birth, Ronan Tynan had his legs amputated below the knee when he was twenty years old. Eight weeks later, he was climbing the stairs of his college dorm, and within a year, he was winning races in the Paralympic Games, amassing eighteen gold medals and fourteen world records. After becoming the first disabled person ever admitted to the National College of Physical Education, he served a short stint in the prosthetics industry and began a new career in medicine. He continued his studies at Trinity College, where he specialized in orthopedic sports injuries.
After earning his medical degree, Ronan chose music for the next act in his life. Less than one year after he began studying voice, he won both the John McCormick Cup for Tenor Voice and the BBC talent show Go for It. He went on to win the prestigious International Operatic Singing Competition in France, and in 1998 his debut Sony album, My Life Belongs to You, became a top-five hit in England within just two weeks and eventually went platinum. Later that year, he was invited to join The Irish Tenors, furthering a journey that started in a small Irish village and has brought him to the world's grandest stages.
In Halfway Home, Tynan movingly describes his life story, which Barbara Walters called "so amazing you may find it hard to believe."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780743234863 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Scribner |
| Publication date: | 01/19/2002 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 314 KB |
About the Author
Born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1960, Ronan Tynan is one of the world-renowned Irish Tenors. Able to walk only with the aid of prosthetic limbs, he is a horseman, an athlete, a doctor, a singer, and now a writer. He lives in Ireland.
Read an Excerpt
Prologue
On a hot July afternoon in 1999, I stepped from a yellow cab onto the corner of Thirty-fourth Street and Eighth Avenue and faced the imposing structure that is Madison Square Garden. Later that night, the other two Irish Tenors and I would perform the fifth concert of our whirlwind American tour for the first time inside the Garden's enormous round walls. The sidewalk bustled with people. The heat and noise peculiar to New York City in summer seemed to bounce up at me from the pavement. But as I entered the arena, the air cooled and a hush greeted me. I had never in all my life seen such a place, and my immediate thought was, "Holy God, have I come through the wrong door?" Some of the best musicians in the world had performed on this stage, the greatest athletic battles had been played out in the center of this stadium, and here was I. When the manager brought me on stage, I felt a tremendous charge. With its impressive array of lights, scaffolding as tall as a skyscraper, and sea of empty seats, Madison Square Garden oozed power. The building itself seemed to speak to me, challenging, "Come try me."
That night the arena was full to capacity, the orchestra was in place, and the splendid lights illuminated the stage in all colors. Then my heart began pumping madly, not a state conducive to smooth singing. Before walking out in front of the crowd, I said a silent prayer to my father, who had passed on two years before: "It's you and me, Dad," I said. "Let's go." The orchestra started up the first notes of "The Minstrel Boy" and John McDermott, Anthony Kearns, and I walked out. We all wore crisp tuxedoes, mine characteristically roomy. With my swaying gait and solid build, I looked more like a rugby player than a singer. Swaggering slightly on my two artificial limbs, I made my way to the center of the stage and, with John and Anthony, began to sing.
The crowd was in ecstasy from the start. When I sang my first solo, "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," I looked down at the people in the front row. They had tears in their eyes, and my heart went out to them. I thought, "My God, what kind of a state will they be in by the time we finish?" When, after over an hour on stage, the piano floated the first bar of another of my solos, "The Town I Loved So Well," I had found my composure. In came the bass notes, and I began a seven-minute test of stamina.
For any person, standing singing for so long can be tough, but as a double amputee, for me it's an even greater physical effort. There's nothing out there to lean on, only yourself. But the love I felt from the crowd made me forget my fatigue completely. I thought to myself, "Right, if you tell the story the way it was meant to be told they'll be in rapture." And so it was. I couldn't feel the pulse of the music in my feet, but I felt it deep in my heart. And as I always do when I sing, I bared my soul, putting myself naked before the public to be judged. My soul and my voice were one and soared out to the audience with ease. I felt not only the rhythm of Phil Coulter's beautiful song, but its true sentiment, which begins with the innocence of childhood memories, moves to describe growing up, shifts forward into anguish and despair, and comes back in its final verse to a hopeful longing for peace.
Strange to say, my own life story follows a similar arc. It's a life that, from the start, has not been all about singing. Yes, I am a singer. But I am also a horseman, an athlete, and a doctor. I am a son, a brother, and a friend. I can sing as I do only because of the life that I've led. With each decade I've found myself in very different, ever more challenging arenas, but the many stages of my life have always intertwined. I have moved from one stage to the next as if on a wild steeplechase, keeping my eye fixed straight ahead and above me. If there is a single line connecting all the episodes and main events of my life it is this -- a gift both given and received. Give a little, you'll get a lot, my grandfather used to say, and over years and many obstacles, he's been proven right.
When I finished my song at Madison Square Garden that night, the applause of the crowd rose up to meet me like a thunderous warm wave. Fifteen thousand people stood and clapped. I'd given my all and the shouts, screams, and tears the audience gave me in return were the greatest rewards a man's soul can have. I drank it all in, wondering again how in hell I'd ever made it from my family's small farm in Ireland to this wide stage.
Copyright © 2002 by Ronan Tynan
Chapter 15
I had now started studying social and forensic medicine. This finally gave me some time free to look into other matters, so I set about finding out where I could have singing lessons. I decided to visit all of the music academies in Dublin, which at that time consisted of two: the Royal Irish Academy, and the College of Music in Adelaide Road. My first port of call was the Royal Academy. I didn't get past the reception desk, for I was told, "To apply to this academy for the academic year, you must have made your application a year in advance, then be called for an interview. Subsequently, a place will be offered if you have satisfied the board." I explained that I needed to start straightaway. The receptionist looked at me with disdain. "I'm sorry, you're too late, and possibly too old!" Never one to be told I can't do something, I retorted, "Get used to seeing this face. You'll be paying to see me perform as I'll make it in music some day." Quickly putting that rejection behind me, I headed off to the College of Music in Adelaide Road. As I got out of my car, I could hear a young girl singing scales from the second-floor window. Something told me that this was it. Once again, I went to the reception desk and asked for an application form for the upcoming year. Once again, I was told, "We're sorry, all applications have been closed for the current academic year. Please put in your application next year."
I knew that if I could get to the second floor and meet the singing teacher, I might have some chance of putting forward my case. There were a lot of people milling about in the foyer. While no one was looking, I sneaked into the elevator and went up to the second floor. The doors opened across from the room where the girl was singing. From this proximity, the sound was far from pleasing and I could only assume that she was a beginner. As brazen as one could be, I knocked on the door. Quite quickly the singing stopped and I was greeted by a very splendiferous lady. She asked quite calmly, "Are you here for an audition, lovey?" For the first time in my life, my brain kicked in before I opened my mouth. I answered in the affirmative. She then inquired as to where I was from. I told her that I hailed from Kilkenny. She turned and said to the young lady, who also happened to be auditioning, "Would you mind, darling, leaving the room while I audition this young man, as he has come a long distance, and has to catch a train." She had made this last part up and I was delighted at her creativity.
She then proceeded to bring me over to the grand piano and asked me what I would like to sing. I had no music with me. All I knew were Irish ballads, and bits and pieces of songs that I had learned from Mario Lanza tapes. She said, "Never mind, darling, we will do some scales." She started at middle "C" and just kept playing up the scale waiting for me to hit my top limit. To her amazement, I was able to reach a top "C" and then some. She paused. "I have one place left and I will give it to you, darling. Now tell me," she said, "what level of musicianship have you?" I thought that this would be a stumbling block, so I answered that I had covered some grades. She looked at me straight in the eye. "Now, darling, at what level are you, really?" I held my head down and recalled what my father used to say, "Tell the truth, and you'll never be caught out." I responded, "When I was small, I took some piano lessons, but as far as theory of music goes, there is a major vacuum." She gave a great laugh. "We'll put you into prison. You must enroll in the theory class that is run in the college every Tuesday night." I responded with delight, "I surely will!"
She then said, "By the way, lovey, what age are you?" "I'm thirty-two. I suppose I'm too old?" I replied. "Not at all! A good tenor only matures when he's forty. At least all the ones that I've sung with. What have you worked at up to now?" she then asked. I told her that I was in my fifth year of medical school. She smiled and said that I wasn't her first medical student. She also had a fifth-year medical student from the College of Surgeons who was a very fine bass. "You will have two lessons every week, starting at eight o'clock in the morning." I thought this was fantastic. It added a purpose to getting up early in the morning, and I used to love going in to see her and doing all of the vocalizing from "Lilly, lally" to "Sadie" to "Me-ma-me-ma-mo."
This wonderful lady, under whom I had the great fortune to study, was Dr. Veronica Dunn. She was a renowned operatic soprano who had sung all over the world. She had a tremendous reputation both as an opera singer and a teacher.
In the meantime, I hadn't been neglecting my medicine. Having to divide the precious time I had carefully between medicine and singing focused my mind and brought a discipline to my life that I hadn't really needed before.
I returned home three weeks later for a weekend. I told Dad of my great fortune. Amazingly, he had heard of Dr. Dunn and said that I was very fortunate to have such a great woman take an interest in me. "There must be something to this voice -- well, there is no doubt in my mind where you got this talent from," he said. When we discussed Veronica's career he amazed me with how much he knew about her. He then told me that years ago, when he was very young, he had sung for a German man called Herr Hoos, a master singer from Munich. He was visiting Ireland at the time giving master classes and also looking at the Irish educational system for teaching music. Herr Hoos knew the celebrated Irish tenor Count John McCormack and acclaimed him as one of the greatest tenors in the world.
When Dad sang for Herr Hoos, the verdict was amazing. He wanted to take Dad to Germany to study with him at one of the conservatories on full scholarship. Hoos even approached my grandfather to ask for permission. Unfortunately for my father the request was denied. Dad was needed to work on the farm. Singing was certainly not considered a viable profession by the farming community in Kilkenny when I started and it was less valued in my father's day. I sensed a tone of melancholy as Dad reminisced about this lost opportunity, but he had never been one to cause trouble or go against the will of his father. I got the feeling that Dad was going to relive some of his singing aspirations through me.
In November 1991, I went in for my usual lesson on a Monday morning. Veronica, known affectionately to her students as Ronnie, showed me the curriculum for the national singing festival, known as Feis Ceoil. The Tenor section required the singer to present two songs. The first was a prescribed piece "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal" by Quilter. The second was your own choice of Irish song. She chose "Moya My Girl" by Vaughan. She told me, "Lovey, I don't think that you will be totally ready for this, but it would be a good experience for you to sing in public for a more distinguished, critical audience." I responded confidently, "I'll win the Tenor section of this competition! Wait till you see." She laughed. "There's no holding you back." "That's right," I said. I learned the "Crimson Petal" within a week. For several lessons, Ronnie hammered the melody on the piano while I equally bashed out until she felt I had a handle not only on the notes but on the interpretation as well. I knew that "Moya My Girl" was a good song for me as soon as we started to work on it. It gave me a full range to go through. It also showed the expressive quality of my voice.
The competition is always held during the month of March, just prior to the Easter break. Hundreds of singers from all parts of Ireland enter this competition. All of Ronnie's students took part. There was no doubt in my mind that Ronnie had some fantastic singers studying with her. Quite quickly we all knew each other. She also set up a little opera studio where we were given different roles, singing and staging various opera excerpts for different corporate functions.
I became great friends with Miriam, who was a phenomenal young mezzo-soprano from Kerry; Marie Hagerty from Roscommon; Cora Newman, a beautiful contralto from Dublin; Aran Maree, the bass who was a fifth-year medical student like myself; a young soprano from Wexford called Deirdre Masterson, who had amazing potential at the tender age of sixteen; and a baritone called Nial Wolf, who had the most wonderful timbre in his voice. There was no apparent rivalry among us. Each of us respected and encouraged the other's talent.
Meanwhile, I had completed my social medicine rotation by December and subsequently did my three weeks' clinical practice in January 1992 in a little village in County Meath. I really enjoyed this time, as it showed me the full experience of being a general practitioner in a community setting. I started my pediatric rotation in February at the Children's Hospital on Harcourt Street. This was a two-month residency, which also brought me great satisfaction. I enjoyed playing with the children as much as Patch Adams. On several occasions, I was found acting the clown with them.
During that time, I did a lot of work with children who had cystic fibrosis. This disease mainly affects the lungs, but also has detrimental effects on the entire system. It often leads to a child requiring lung and heart transplant surgery. I learned so much from the children with their wonderful, positive nature. I was also impressed by the tremendous strength with which their parents supported them, irrespective of the outcome. I grew to respect and admire both the parents and children. I vowed then that I would always maintain sensitivity toward any individual who needed help. As a result of my experiences with very sick and terminally ill patients, I learned how fortunate I was, despite being physically challenged. I realized that I could lead a perfectly normal life, whereas most of the people that I encountered here would never be able to survive for any substantial period without full-time medical assistance. This also helped to form the emotional subtext of my song interpretations, for I believe that only one who has seen such hardship and sorrow can bring it to his art.
Prior to the main Feis Ceoil in Dublin, I decided to enter one of the smaller singing competitions in Arklow, County Wicklow. I entered the Tenor section, the Moore's Melody section, and the Light Opera section in order to get as much experience singing in front of a jury as possible. I drove down with one of my friends from class, Catherine Harden, who lived in Wicklow at the time. I brought her down for moral support. She was not only a beautiful woman but also a lovely person. Her ear was unparalleled and I could count on her opinion, which I knew wouldn't spare me but wouldn't be uncharitable.
My first competition was the tenor solo. Coincidentally, the same piece of music was required as for the Feis Ceoil: "Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal." As I had already battered this song around several times a day for the last four months, I couldn't have been better prepared. Yet, when I was asked to perform it, I was as nervous as I had ever been. Luckily, after the first phrase of the song, my voice opened up. The truth was revealed to all: raw talent at its best, trying to be refined. The judge loved my performance, and after I had finished, came up to me and shook my hand, saying, "What a beautiful young voice!" I was delighted with myself and left on cloud nine full of confidence and determination to really let loose in the Light Opera section. I won the Tenor section. Two hours later, I came back to sing "You Are My Heart's Delight" from The Land of Smiles by Franz Lehár, in the Light Opera section. I also won in this category. Finally, I had to sing in the Moore's Melody section. The Moore's Melody is a competition in which all the songs are settings of Thomas Moore's poetry. I chose "She Is Far from the Land." The challenge here for me was stylistic more than anything. I had to bring down the power element and develop a parlor type of setting. Unfortunately I didn't execute this too well. Nevertheless, I was given second prize. All in all, it was a fantastic experience and I couldn't wait to tell Ronnie.
The following Monday, I returned triumphant and felt that I was Luciano Pavarotti. Ronnie was delighted for me but warned that the competition would be a lot keener in the Feis Ceoil and not to pin my hopes too high. I was a little taken aback by that. But determined as ever, I persevered. That Friday, at two o'clock, in one of the smaller rooms in the Royal Dublin Society, the Tenor section commenced. There were twenty-five tenors. The poor judge had to hear all of us sing the same song.
Two nights prior to the competition I went to hear another singing competition, which was being adjudicated by the same judge. The winner whom he chose had a fine, big voice that was still developing. He spoke, after he announced the winner, about her style and remarked, "If a singer has a big voice and is required to sing softly, they should start the selected piece at a slightly stronger dynamic, so that they can highlight the piano element of their voice when required without ever singing off the voice, or singing falsetto in a male." I kept this in mind, as I knew that this advice particularly applied to me.
Interestingly enough, this bore out in the competition. Several tenors started too softly and then had nowhere softer to go when the music required it, and sang falsetto. This did not appeal to the judge and they didn't make the final cut. When my turn came, I started at a fairly strong dynamic, which amazed a lot of the singers, as they felt that I was too strong. However, this allowed my piano to really shine through. I thought of Ronnie as I went to sing a particular phrase, "...slip into my bosom..." She always said, "Make the audience feel that you want them to slip into your bosom! Then you will have achieved the sentiment that Quilter wanted to convey." I'm not so sure about that, but one thing I do know: I made sure they felt the sincerity of my plea.
The judge announced the four finalists within ten minutes after the first round was completed. I was one of them. I knew that once I had gotten through to this stage, no one would be able to touch my interpretation of "Moya My Girl." I was last to sing and, boy, did I let it flow, enjoying every minute of it. Even the porters and the usherettes came in to hear it. I won the silver platter given as first prize, which automatically qualified me for the final of the John McCormack Cup, which would take place on the final day of the Feis. When I returned to the hospital the next day I told the lads how I had done. Rather than keep it quiet, John Caird announced my success to all in the lecture theater. He encouraged anyone who could to attend the final of the John McCormack Cup on the Friday of that week. I rang Dad, who said he would try to make it for the final but as he had cows calving it might be difficult. Fiona would definitely attend.
Ronnie wanted me to have at least two lessons before the competition, but I was nervous that I might just do too much and take the freshness out of my voice, so I stayed working in the clinic till five that evening. I then went over to the concert hall about an hour before the start to warm up.
The competition was to commence at 6:30 P.M. Having warmed up for about an hour, I decided to see if Fiona had arrived. When I went around to the side entrance of the concert hall, I could see her sitting down with about twenty of my classmates. I tried to sneak up behind so as not to cause any major disturbance in the concert hall. This competition is attended by many older people, who go purely for the enjoyment of the quality of music that's performed. I sat down beside Fiona. She grabbed my hand and said, "Are you not supposed to be backstage?" "No, there are two finals before the John McCormack final," I said. On hearing my voice, my friend Keith turned and said, "Hey, Ronie!" I told him to keep quiet, but I was too late, for all the boys started to chant, "Hey, Ronie!!!" On hearing this uproar, the judge turned around quite annoyed and asked us to quiet down. I tried to disappear under the seat out of embarrassment, and Fiona said, "There's your chance blown." After that episode, I left them straightaway.
I returned backstage to meet the other five competitors who were all warming up and very composed. I thought this calmness showed their far greater experience. At exactly six-thirty, the John McCormack final commenced. The basses sang first, followed by the baritones, and then finally the tenors. As I had been the winner of the tenor competition, I was the last to sing. It was customary to wear suitable attire for such a prestigious competition, and as they say, I wore my Sunday best. I was really nervous walking out onto the stage. As soon as I was in view of the public, the lads started chanting, "Hey, Ronie! Way to go, Ronie!" I smiled at them nervously. The judge stood up, turned around to face my rabble, and gave them a furious look. "It is extremely unprofessional to cause such a racket at this event. Could you please refrain from doing so until the competitor has finished his recital," he said. At that moment, I despaired quietly inside thinking that the judge knew that this crowd was with me and would judge me accordingly.
I had to sing the same two songs as in the tenor competition. I felt that during the "Crimson Petal," my voice wasn't as free as it had been. However, when I started singing "Moya My Girl," my voice opened up completely. I could be heard in the road outside the hall in Ballsbridge. On completion, all the audience clapped furiously. I graciously bowed. After ten minutes' deliberation, the judge got up to talk about this particular competition. His comments were as follows: "This competition is not just for the polished singer, or for the singer with the best technique, or even for the singer with the best interpretation. It encompasses many facets of vocal ability. It is also about seeing which singer has the greatest potential, irrespective of whether they are polished, or whether they still need a lot of work. We have heard six fine singers this evening. All of them are at different levels of their training. But tonight, we have heard one singer with great heart, and a lot of potential. The winner of the John McCormack Cup for 1993 is Ronan Tynan. I can only assume from the uproar that I've heard throughout this competition that this gentleman will be a very popular winner with the audience." After his announcement the place went into a big uproar. I am sure that the Royal Dublin Society Concert Hall had never witnessed such an outburst in the past, nor will they see anything like it again anytime soon.
I was presented with the John McCormack Cup, and all twenty-five of us, including Fiona, went to the Ballsbridge Inn. We drank to John McCormack and each other. I rang Dad at about nine o'clock that night and told him the great news. As per usual, Dad was overcome and said that he was very proud.
I met Ronnie later that night and gave her a big hug. She was surprised that I had won, but pleased. She said, "Darling, you have a lot more work to do." I accepted her point, but for the moment, I felt as if I were king of the castle.
The following Monday, I received a phone call from the College of Music. The great Italian tenor Hugo Binelli was holding master classes in Ireland with a view to selecting some singers to study in Genoa with him at his summer school. I was asked to attend the class. He asked me to sing an aria, and I chose "Una Furtiva Lagrima" from Donizetti's L'Elisir d'Amore.
When I had completed singing, he asked me to sing it again. This time, he started to correct me. He kept me singing for nearly an hour, and I was exhausted at the end of it. I had never had such an intense session on one particular piece. He concentrated on two basic elements: first, maintaining a basic line throughout the whole song; second, working the cadenza so that it began with each note clearly articulated and culminated in a very pure open sound at the climax. He wouldn't let me sit down until I had got this completely right. The time and attention he showed me didn't go over well with some of the other singers! At the end of my audition with him, he said, "Tomorrow night I put on a concert in the House of Lords, in the Bank of Ireland. I have selected six singers among you to sing one operatic aria." He announced the first five singers straight off and then said, "The final singer is a unique singer. He has a lot of talent but not a lot of technical knowhow: Il dottore [the doctor] I have chosen for this reason. He will show you tomorrow night how beautifully he can sing a cadenza." A lot of the people sitting in on the master class were very pleased for me, but some of the other singers had some serious reservations.
On that fateful night Dad and Mam came in support. Dad was dressed in his grey flannel suit, with the red tie that I bought him. This was unusual for him because he was always a man who wore tweed sport jackets and khaki trousers, with brown leather shoes that had to be custom-made for him, as he had terribly shaped feet.
The concert started at eight and was packed to capacity. There was no doubt about it; I heard some of the finest singing ever from young Irish singers. One notable memory was the magnificent mezzo-soprano Miriam Murphy from Kerry. She sang Delilah's aria from Massenet's Samson and Delilah. It was phenomenal! Then came my turn with "Una Furtiva Lagrima." It went quite well and Binelli hailed me as king of the cadenza.
At the end of the concert he announced that he would like to have some Irish students attend a two-week workshop in Genoa that July. Ronnie thought that this would be of great benefit for anyone who was invited. Thankfully, I was one of the chosen few.
During the month of April, it transpired that one of my rugby-playing friends had suddenly taken ill. No one was aware at that time what the problem was. Soon a neurologist from one of the hospitals communicated that Brian had a brain tumor. All of us were devastated. Brian's parents took him to the best consultants that they could find. One of the places they went was Harley Street in London. It was thought that the type of tumor that he had was of an operable nature, but the operation would be very costly. The Knights of the Campanile and the Rugby Club decided to organize a benefit. We weren't quite sure what to do, when someone got a great idea and said, "Why doesn't Ronie sing? We'll charge people to come and hear him." This was the bicentenary year of Trinity College, and many major events were planned for Trinity Week. The culminating event was the big Trinity Ball. We all decided that the best time to run this event would be during Trinity Week.
Each of us had a job to do. The Rugby Club organized tickets and posters, another group embarked on asking Trinity whether we could put this concert on at the start of Trinity Week. Owing to the reasons behind such an altruistic event, the authorities supported us 100 percent. We rented a huge tent, which we erected in the rugby field. My job was to organize the music and the singers for the program, bearing in mind that I was supposed to be the major attraction. I contacted five of my friends: a bass, a baritone, a soprano, a contralto, and Alison, the pianist who was married to the baritone. All of the artists agreed with me that we would make it a mixed evening of opera, West End, and Broadway material. We had three weeks in which to publicize the entire event.
On the night of the performance it poured rain. In spite of this, we filled the tent to capacity. Over fifteen hundred people came to see the performance, each contributing between £15 and £20. We raised over £30,000. After expenses we were able to give Brian well over £10,000 to use at his discretion. Brian died within the following year. Sad to say, I was away for the funeral, but I will never forget the great nature and willingness of a group of men and women to help out a fellow colleague unconditionally.
I completed my Pediatric rotation by the end of April and commenced my Obstetrics and Gynecology two-month rotation in May and June. While I enjoyed this rotation, it was one area in which I didn't plan to make a career.
At the end of June, I had successfully completed all of my medical requirements for that year with the final phase to commence in September 1993.
I went to Genoa on the sixth of July with five other Irish singers. We stayed in small, cheap hotels. This was not a good move. When I returned to my room on my second night, I discovered that my bed was a mass of ants. I had inadvertently left one piece of fruit on the bed that morning and millions of devastating ants descended on my bed and attacked the fruit with a vengeance. I quickly relocated to an insect-free zone.
The weather, as usual in Italy, was superb. On the culinary front, I just couldn't eat enough gnocchi and the delicious dessert called tiramisu.
After the first few days, Hugo had decided to select different arias for us. This time I was asked to learn "M'appari tutt'amor" from Martha by Flotow. I had never heard this aria before. That evening I bought a CD of the legendary tenor Gigli singing this song and spent the evening listening to it and learning the words. The next day I returned to the course, whereupon Hugo said to me, "Well, Pavarotino [little Pavarotti], have you looked at the aria?" As proud as can be, I said, "I know it!" In a surprised tone he countered, "Let's hear it!" Well, I launched into it with my usual gusto. He was delighted, but said, "Your Italian is incomprehensible. We must sort this out." So he had me work with a repetiteur for a few days to straighten out my Italian diction, as well as some minor musical problems. By the end of the second week, he indicated that he would now put on two concerts in different parts of Genoa. He selected me to participate in both.
The concerts went really well and I was extremely well received by the Italian public. Then, one afternoon before I went home to Ireland, Hugo invited me out to his house. It was there that he said to me, "Why don't you forget about medicine and concentrate on becoming an opera singer? You can work with me for two years, and after this you will be ready to sing in the concert halls of the world." I was very, very flattered, but told him that I had put too much into becoming a doctor, and I couldn't let all this work go for naught, especially as I only had one year of medical school left.
He understood, but reaffirmed that I was a late starter in this profession, and it would be a lot more difficult to succeed as a singer without his expert tutelage. We parted very amicably and kept in touch for a short time after that.
I returned to Ireland and commenced my Geriatric elective. This was compulsory. I carried this out in Blanchetstown Hospital. It was during this elective that I realized how fragile human nature can become and how we as young people can forget that someday we too will become old and need a kind hand to hold and face to talk to. It's an invaluable lesson to learn.
Copyright © 2002 by Ronan Tynan