Halfway Home: My Life 'til Now - Softcover

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 educa...