Review: THE WOLF IN THE VOICE at Tarragon Theatre

The extremely snowy night I saw THE WOLF IN THE VOICE, an exploration by three professional singers into the joys and pitfalls of a life spent nursing the soulful but capricious vocal instrument, I had spent all day rehearsing my trusty soprano for a choral performance of my own, a live-scored film opening downtown the next night for a sold-out crowd of thousands. Things weren’t going well; it was the first day in two weeks I’d been able to sing at all after a nasty cold, and my diet of three parts cough drops, three parts hot tea, and one part cough syrup was barely cutting it.

As vocal superstars Neema Bickersteth, Jane Miller, and Taurian Teelucksingh told stories about the wild animal that lurks in the throat of every singer, prowling along the break between head and chest voice and ready to pounce at the first sign of self-doubt, I was feeling more than a little betrayed by my own wheezing wolf.

All this is to say that I found this work created by Martin Julien and Brian Quirt on commission from Nightswimming to sing a familiar and comforting song. If you’re embedded in the world of vocal performance, the show will likely feel warmly nostalgic, even if it may not share much that’s new. If you’d like to learn more about what it’s like to sing for your supper, the content may seem a little inside baseball, but in an accessible and inviting way.

THE WOLF IN THE VOICE feels like more of a voice lesson (or, rather, a lesson about voices) than it is a play. In seminar-type fashion, Bickersteth, Miller, and Teelucksingh present to us elements of their backstories, a medical examination on the inner workings of vocal folds, and tips on how to use nebulizers and oil of oregano when your coloratura is cracking.

They harmonize in beautiful a cappella renditions of works of various genres, from operetta to jazz to musical theatre to pop, some long-practiced, some that performance’s new challenge. A swinging rendition of “Three Little Maids” from The Mikado is particularly entertaining. Deeply supportive of each other, the singers give outsized, energetic performances reminiscent of hosts of a kids’ craft show (in an appealing way) when interacting with each other or when speaking to the audience.

They even lead a singalong or two, encouraging audience members to try things out for themselves. With the added intimacy of singing along with the performers, it’s easy to feel a closeness forming in the room. What makes communal singing such a bonding experience? Unfortunately, we don’t really get into it.

Because of the show’s familiar subject, the most interesting parts to me (other than learning a few new potential cough remedies) were the personal stories that told us what motivated the trio to go into a life in song, a notoriously difficult path, as well as tales of musical and life partnerships gone right or wrong. Some of these stories seem to come directly from one performer; others are delivered in collaboration, a melded character who speaks through all three performers in turn. Choral collaboration turned character collaboration is a fascinating avenue, but one that makes the show feel less personal; is this a real, complete experience, one wonders, or a representative amalgamation?

I wished we could have delved more deeply into these stories, shaping the show more strongly around the metaphor of the wolf and its larger connotations of vocal performance’s connections to vulnerability and self-confidence. More than any other instrument, the voice is a part of the singer, inflected with emotion and personality; an opinion on one’s singing can feel like a referendum on the self. Musical collaboration can create partnerships as strong or as fraught as marriages, or can lead into or out of romantic relationships with a pentatonic prenup. Julien and Quirt’s script flirts with these greater ideas, but in covering everything from mechanics to throat coat, it’s a survey course rather than a deep dive.

There are still plenty of treats and delights in the one-act. Rebecca Picherak’s set design features movable, swishing red curtains and a Big-style floor piano artfully crafted for the show, which alternates between unobtrusive floor decoration and musical instrument as necessary. Bickersteth, Miller, and Teelucksingh have glorious voices honed by hours of practice, and like they blend these voices, the show blends the emotional and the physical, effectively showing the voice as a muscle that deserves attention, thought, and even rest.

By the way, I made it through my opening night performance the next evening, still thinking about a story Teelucksingh told about what can happen when you push the voice to its limits; the show must go on, after all. But, as our intrepid trio intimates, it always goes on dogged by a canid companion—one ready to snap its jaws and howl.

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