S3, E5: Discovering the Art of Singing in Vienna, the Music Capital

In this week's episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, Emma John, an unwilling vocalist, plans a journey to Vienna, a city famous for its musical talent—and the starting point of her musical adventure.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and this is Travel Tales by Dinogo. In each episode, we hear from a traveler about a journey that had a significant impact on them. This season, we are sending out individuals—writers, comedians, playwrights—to explore life's profound questions. In this episode, we’re heading to Vienna with Dinogo contributing writer Emma John.

Music runs in Emma's veins. She was raised in London playing classical violin, and about ten years ago, she ventured to the American South to learn bluegrass, a journey she documented in a story for Dinogo and her book Wayfaring Stranger. However, throughout those years, she shied away from singing, for reasons that will soon be revealed. One day, she resolved to change that. So she booked a trip to Vienna, a city celebrated for its musical talent—and the place where her musical journey began.

Emma John: The street performer outside the electronics shop hits an astonishingly high note. “That must be a high C,” I remark. “It's definitely at least a C,” replies Becki, my bandmate and travel partner. We both attempt to replicate it. Our attempts result in shrieks that bear no resemblance to the clear, ringing vibrato we just heard. I cough lightly and touch the scarf wrapped around my neck like a diva. “Sore throat,” I explain. “I need to protect my voice.”

In Vienna, I've come to realize that even the buskers sound like opera stars. This city is the birthplace of Schubert, the workplace of Mozart, and home to the Vienna Boys’ Choir. If you're looking to learn singing, there’s no better place to receive guidance from the finest.

I want to learn to sing, though I have no dreams of becoming an opera star. My history with the genre is a bit bruised. I grew up playing classical violin in orchestras, but my true exposure to opera didn't happen until I was 21, when I became enamored with a guy who was passionate about it. He was a few years older, worked at an investment bank, and knew how to julienne carrots: I was dazzled by his sophistication. I immersed myself in Verdi and Donizetti, memorizing librettos to impress him. Two months later, he broke my heart. Since then, opera has often sparked my cynical side.

However, I love other singing styles. Show tunes, country songs, jazz standards—I’ll sing them all loudly in my apartment, just not in public. My sister, a talented singer trained in musical theater, makes me feel timid about my abilities. These days, I’ve traded classical for bluegrass, and when my band plays, I hide behind my fiddle, keeping a safe distance from the microphone. I thought it was too late for me to become proficient at singing. Becki, my mandolin-playing friend, disagrees. She believes it’s about taking your voice as seriously as any instrument. So, we decided to travel to Vienna, where I would take my first singing lesson and perhaps exorcise some of my opera demons.

On our first day, we discover a musical culture so vibrant that it overflows even from the city's ornate concert halls. Right after our encounter with the busker, we find a gathering of about a hundred people seated on the sidewalk, watching a live stream of the State Opera's performance of Faust on a large screen. An elderly man with a cane sits comfortably next to a couple of young tourists. A group of elegantly dressed women shares a bench with a homeless man. All are quietly absorbed in the chorus, a performance that is literally larger than life.

As I glance down at the sidewalk, I notice the names of renowned composers who once lived and worked in this city, carved into a walk of fame: Antonio Vivaldi, Anton Bruckner, Franz Schubert, Jean Sibelius. We hurry over them; we have another musical engagement this evening, and it doesn’t include Tosca, Carmen, or Don Giovanni.

You see, in my quest for a singing instructor, I had one stipulation: I didn’t want to sound like a Wagnerian handmaiden. While I admire the incredible vocal strength of opera singers, the melodrama is a bit off-putting. I’m often amazed that something so theatrical can evoke such deep emotion in people.

No, if I’m going to discover my voice, I’d prefer to channel a sultry, brassy allure. Imagine if you could time travel back and convince Peggy Lee to listen to some Beyoncé. Before our trip, I had met a musician from Vienna who suggested we attend a “salon” hosted by a jazz singer named Anna Laszlo. Anna moved from Hungary to Vienna to pursue her music career and offers lessons when she’s not performing or recording. Once a month, she opens her apartment for a gig, inviting her students, friends, and anyone who hears about it.

So Becki and I are on our way to the address we were given. It’s located on the second floor of a 20th-century tenement building, the kind of charming affordable housing Vienna is famous for. Upon entering the living room, I spot a grand piano in a corner and a mismatched assortment of sofas and chairs arranged around it. We stand a bit awkwardly to one side as the space fills with a couple of dozen attendees, noticing that while they are dressed elegantly in suits and cocktail dresses, they have also brought their own slippers to switch into at the door. Apparently, this is customary in these buildings to avoid disturbing the downstairs neighbors on the hardwood floors.

An older gentleman compliments Becki on her gingham-check shirt. “This is quite traditional in Austria,” he informs her. She’s still blushing from the praise when he adds, “Of course, traditionally we’d use it as a tablecloth.”

Anna greets everyone as they arrive, dressed in a flowing caftan-style dress, her thick blonde hair styled into loose braids reminiscent of a Disney prince’s adventurous look. Once everyone is seated, she steps to the front with her three-piece band, kicking off the familiar tune, Sweet Georgia Brown. Her rich voice embraces the well-known lyrics and rhythms like a warm cashmere shawl. Beside her, a rugged man with a thick gray mane plays the harmonica, and after the song concludes, Anna introduces him as her partner, Wolfgang. They follow up with Django Reinhardt’s “Minor Swing,” and as the music flows, they start scatting in a playful back-and-forth of improvisation. While the syllables might seem nonsensical, every phrase Anna sings is packed with emotion: teasing, scolding, and nagging. “It’s like watching them bicker over breakfast,” I whisper to Becki.

As the night unfolds, the atmosphere shifts from a formal performance to a lively house party. A couple of young men Wolfgang spotted earlier, busking Reinhardt tunes in the Museum Quarter, arrive with their guitars and ignite the room with gypsy jazz. A few guests begin to dance on the parquet floor, their house shoes gliding beneath them.

Anna agrees to give me a singing lesson later this week and recommends various venues around the city that showcase something beyond the classical and opera music it’s known for. There are vibrant jazz and swing clubs, and plenty of musicians who still perform Wienerlieder, traditional Viennese songs from the 19th and early 20th centuries that beautifully blend humor with melancholy.

A few days after the salon, Becki and I learn about a month-long festival celebrating Wienerlieder and quickly purchase tickets. “I feel about 30 percent underdressed for this,” Becki remarks later that day as we stand beneath the ornate pillars of the city’s Konzerthaus, mingling with attendees adorned in pearls and diamonds. We’ve noticed that the locals in Vienna always seem impeccably dressed, even when just stepping out for a quick errand.

I’m feeling anxious. Our German is limited to phrases like “Bier, bitte?,” and it’s hard to envision us grasping the sharp wit embedded in the lyrics of Wienerlieder. However, we soon find ourselves laughing along with the rest of the audience. The songs are accompanied by piano, evoking a vaudeville vibe. Each performance is filled with theatrical flair and a generous dose of slapstick comedy. A tenor stands to sing about a woman named Clara, and even without understanding the translation, I can tell it’s a lament about unrequited love. I find myself bursting into laughter at punchlines I can’t even comprehend. The singers’ expressions convey more than just words; they capture the essence of the performance, and I yearn for a rich, full vibrato like theirs.

Perhaps warbling isn’t such a terrible thing after all.

With my ambitions ignited, the next day I hop on the subway from the city center to the Meidling district for my singing lesson with Anna. To my surprise, there’s significantly less singing than I had anticipated during the first half hour. Instead, she guides me through a series of exercises. First, I practice breathing from my diaphragm. Then she instructs me to scrunch all the muscles in my face, followed by making the widest mouth I can, alternating between the two until I feel like I’ve stepped into an old-time silent film. One exercise even has me squatting on the floor and puffing like a wheezy dragon. When we finally begin to produce sounds, she has me groan, sigh, and create silly clicking noises from the back of my throat.

So much for the basics of singing.

On the bright side, blowing raspberries at my teacher turns out to be quite enjoyable. By the time Anna finishes the warm-up, I’ve shed most of my self-consciousness. So when she instructs me to open my jaw “like a fish” and sing “through the roof of my mouth,” I follow her lead. The notes that had been confined within my vocal cords start to bounce around my head and then burst forth from my mouth. I pause, bewildered and amazed.

She chuckles and nods with encouragement. “That is your singing voice,” she says. “And it’s quite impressive.”

As I start to sing with this unfamiliar voice—first scales, then fragments of melody—I reflect on the oddity of the experience. It feels as though Anna has just gifted me an instrument I’ve never played before. Controlling the notes is trickier, yet their tone is brighter, richer—indeed, more beautiful—than anything I’ve previously sung.

We agree to reconvene in a couple of days, and I promise to practice in the meantime. For the next 48 hours, Becki endures my humming alongside her as we stroll through the streets. I also howl in the shower and run through my vocal exercises while she attempts to read. Our room features a window seat that provides a wonderfully resonant acoustic space for me to explore my new voice. I settle there, repeating the first note from Charlie Chaplin’s “Smile” over and over, trying to recapture the sound I created in Anna’s apartment: “Smah . . . smahhh . . . smahhhl. . . .

“That’s quite impressive,” Becki comments.

“Don’t you mean annoying?” I retort.

“Well, it manages to be both,” she replies with a grin.

Another task Anna assigned me was to check out Porgy & Bess, the city's premier jazz club. She described it as the underground hub of alternative music in Vienna, with a Finnish funk band scheduled to perform the day after my lesson. Unfortunately, Becki and I found ourselves double-booked, so I had to leave her at a chamber music concert and rush out at intermission to reach the club. As I hurried through the entrance hall, still bearing the remnants of its 1920s theater past, I noticed posters featuring a lineup of musicians from around the globe who have graced this stage: Neneh Cherry, Nigel Kennedy, Toumani Diabaté, Glen Hansard.

Shifting so abruptly from the intricate elegance of baroque music to raw funk is quite rare. Perhaps that’s why the night takes on a surreal vibe. I see a Finnish guy in double denim shouting, “How do you dig that groove?” I watch as the band's trumpeter and trombonist synchronize their riffs with skiing moves. Someone is shredding so intensely that he has to blow on his hands afterward. What’s even more bizarre is that he’s playing a euphonium.

The scenes feel particularly surreal as I ascend the stairs back to the street and step into the historic city. Would passersby believe me if I told them that just below, a man is playing jazz flute with no trace of irony?

My second session with Anna proves to be much tougher than the first. Not only is it challenging to control my vocal cords, but now she also expects me to infuse meaning into my singing. Anna can sing a phrase, and it’s clear, even with my eyes closed, what she conveys. Yet, as I try to stay in tune, shape my vowels, and remember to breathe, my brain is too busy to express any emotion. “Pretend you don’t care,” Anna advises. I open my mouth, and instantly forget all the lyrics to the song I’m attempting. I’m not sure that’s exactly what she meant.

I feel overwhelmed by the complexity of it all. How do singers master all this technique yet still sound so free, relaxed, and spontaneous? Anna notices my frustration. “You don’t have to get it all right at once,” she reassures me. I respond that I’d be happy just to get one aspect right. While I may be beginning to find my voice, I've also realized it’s a much more intricate and enigmatic instrument than I ever imagined.

One final musical event awaits us on this trip. It’s our last night in Vienna, and Becki and I are off to the State Opera. We’ve managed to gather enough formal attire to avoid embarrassment from the Viennese fashion police, and we’ve secured tickets to see Verdi’s La Traviata.

La Traviata is one of those operas where the entire storyline hinges on matters of honor and a tragic case of tuberculosis. These are typically the ones I find most challenging, as I struggle to grasp why the lead characters make such devastatingly selfless choices, or how a gravely ill person can manage to sing loudly while maneuvering around the stage. To top it off, this opera happens to be the favorite of my sophisticated ex-boyfriend, which means I know it well and like it even less.

However, you can’t leave Italy without savoring the pasta, just as you can’t come to Vienna to learn singing without experiencing an opera. Our seats are in a box so close to the stage that we feel almost part of it; the other attendees include a couple of stern Viennese women and a pair of thrilled Americans, who had called the ticket office daily in hopes of securing seats for the sold-out performance. “We absolutely adore La Traviata,” the wife exclaims. I mentally remind myself not to laugh during any of the somber scenes.

Next to each seat, a small dot-matrix screen discreetly displays translations of the Italian libretto. “La città di feste è piena, volge il tempo dei piacer, nel riposo ancor la lena si ritempri per goder,” the chorus sings. “The city is full of parties, it’s time to indulge, let us recharge our spirits for new delights.” I recall Anna’s house concert, the playful way she scatted with Wolfgang, and the sight of people dancing in slippers on her wooden floors.

I think back to the band showcasing their funky talents at Porgy & Bess, and the rush to reach it from the Konzerthaus. I reflect on the numerous gigs and venues Anna encouraged us to explore. Then, the music takes over, and my thoughts fade away entirely.

Maybe my singing lessons have heightened my appreciation for the vocal performances around me. I could certainly attribute this to the surprisingly affordable champagne that flows freely during intermission. However, I prefer to believe that Vienna itself is to blame—a city of formalities that teems with emotion and unrestrained expression beneath the surface. By the end of the third act, I am completely immersed in the music, and Mr. Sophisticated Ex-Boyfriend has been thoroughly exorcised from my thoughts.

The heroine delivers one final, powerful melody before her inevitable decline from consumption. Becki leans forward, rummaging through her bag while trying to avoid the disapproving looks from the Viennese ladies. With a silent, victorious smile, she hands me a tissue.

Aislyn: That was Emma John. Emma has continued her singing journey and has a particular passion for harmonizing with her bluegrass friends. She has fully rekindled her love for opera. Since that trip, she has explored several opera houses worldwide, including La Scala in Milan and the Sydney Opera House. Just before recording this episode, she was in the North Carolina mountains enjoying some bluegrass picking and was about to head to Nashville to interview one of her favorite new duos, the War and Treaty.

To hear more from Emma, check out her books, Wayfaring Stranger and Self Contained, both available as audiobooks on Audible, narrated by Emma herself. You can follow her on Twitter @em_john, on Instagram @emmajohnauthor, and visit her website at emmajohn.com.

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This has been Travel Tales, brought to you by Dinogo Media and Boom Integrated. Our podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene, Adrien Glover, and Robin Lai. The post-production team includes Jenn Grossman and Clint Rhoades from John Marshall Media. Music composition is by Alan Carrescia. Special thanks to Irene Wang and Angela Johnston.

I’m Aislyn Greene, your host who travels as much as I can. I’m thrilled to be back on the road again. As we journey through the world this year, remember that travel begins the moment we step out our front door.

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