Jaume Tribó: "When that flame appeared from who knows what height, I understood that it was all over."

BarcelonaWhen it's said that Jaume Tribó (Barcelona, ​​1945) is a living memory of the Gran Teatre del Liceu, it's meant literally: you can ask him about any detail from 1847 onwards, because he knows the complete lineup for every season. During the interview, a tour guide and a theater technician approached him to ask for two historical tidbits. Conductor Mario Gas also appeared, shouting "Mestre Tribó!" This Saturday marks fifty years since Tribó became the prompter at the theater, and he'll celebrate with a concert in the Foyer, for which he's chosen a program of the most difficult and challenging arias. A true character.

— Come, let's sit here. Row 13, seat 20. This is where the bomb fell on November 7, 1893.

Wow! You know everything about the Liceu, right?

— I have two privileges. The first is that I'm the oldest in the house, because I've turned 80 and I started at this theater on November 29, 1975, so I've seen them all arrive. And the other is that, besides being the prompter, a very important part of my job is having done the Annals of the Lyceum, the compilation of all artistic activity. When Caballé sang her first here RuleWith great and well-deserved success, people came from the United States and Australia, and when they asked, for example, "Did Enrico Caruso sing in this theater?", nobody knew the answer and they sent them to me: "Yes. He sang Rigoletto in 1904." I realized that what interested me interested many people. And when the Liceu burned down, well, I spent all those years going every day to the newspaper archives at the Library of Catalonia.

I have to tell you, he's difficult to reach. He doesn't have a cell phone and he's always at rehearsals. Is that why we arranged to meet at lunchtime?

— It's best if I don't have a mobile phone, because a performance can't be interrupted, whether on stage or in the Mestres Cabanes rehearsal room. For years and years now, my day has always been the same. I can tell you the rehearsals I'll be doing in 2040: from 11 to 2 and from 4 to 7, and from 4 to 8 pm. This every day of the year except Sundays. There are many occasions when I rehearse in the morning...Aida, in the afternoon The Sunset of the Gods and at night it starts ParsifalThis has happened to me more than once. I've never complained.

How is a prompter born?

— I started coming to the Liceu as a spectator in 1955. I sat on the fifth floor, first row, number 36. My mother bought me a season ticket, and I came almost every day, all season long. Even as a little boy, I said I wanted to be an opera prompter. A prompter in a play doesn't have to be so precise, but in opera, we have the orchestra, which is unforgiving, and nobody can get lost, ever.

What is your job?

— Before the catastrophe strikes, the prompter anticipates it, because they've already witnessed the rehearsals and know who's performing well and who's struggling, for whatever reason. Therefore, the lines must always be spoken, in whatever language is appropriate and at the expected pace. A measure early? No, it depends on the music's rhythm, but always as little as possible. And saying three syllables is enough.

How did he get the covert position at the Liceu?

— Thanks to a Catalan opera, the Fable of hawksWith text by Josep Maria de Sagarra and music by Jaume Ventura Tort, a copla musician from L'Hospitalet. I had already worked as a prompter for amateur productions, and since I was always running around while studying philosophy and literature, I knew everyone. Maestro Gerardo Pérez Busquier suggested it to me and asked the impresario Pàmias, who paid me 225 pesetas. I had spent two or three years sitting to the left of Joan Dornemann, watching what she did and didn't do. She was an American who had come from the Metropolitan Opera in New York, and she was one of the best.

And what not to do?

— A prompter should never conduct. The conductor is the one who conducts; the maestro sets the tempo.

You are the last active prompter in Spain...

— The question that offends me.

Oh, why?

— First, because I'm 80 years old, but I can live much longer. My father lived a very healthy 102 years, and my mother 96. On this side, I'm very well paid. And in the public sector, I'm the only one with a permanent position; the rest are brought in from elsewhere. At the Metropolitan Opera in New York, they have seven prompters specializing in Slavic, Italian, German, Czech, and French repertoire. At Covent Garden and La Scala in Milan, even for simple operas, the prompter is always present. At the Vienna State Opera, there are five, all Hungarian. That's how opera production works. I don't accept bad luck, which is why I'm always present during rehearsals and I'm aware of the singers' needs.

Does a prompter need more languages or more music?

— There are two basic things. I studied Italian in philosophy and literature, because I took Romance languages and Italian dialectology. I learned German during the two years I lived in Zurich as a child, so I know the Swiss dialect. French comes from my family, because my mother lived in Perpignan and we had the Paris Match At home, I was reading Françoise Sagan's novels before I was even supposed to read them. Later, I studied Russian and Czech. And I studied piano at the conservatory on Rue Bruc.

His work shines when singers go blank. Does that happen often?

— Every day! Every day someone gets lost, either because it's rehearsals and they're not from here, or because of a wrong word, or a phrase, a measure too early, a measure too late... I find myself missing something every day. And we don't make a big deal of it; everyone makes mistakes.

Has the prompter ever made a mistake?

— Yes, once. In 1981, at the Campoamor Theatre in Oviedo, with the third act of The Mona Lisa by Ponchielli. I gave the baritone entrance a little too early, and behind the baritone, my whole heart was attacking. When I felt my whole heart coming in prematurely... [grabs his heart]. I didn't sleep that night.

It's well known that you had a very good relationship with divas like Montserrat Caballé...

— And with Mr. Kraus too. He performed Rigoletto everywhere and always made me follow, always to his left. Of course he knew. La donne è mobileBut... what about the second verse? He is always miserableMr. Kraus is one of the most confident singers I've ever known, in every sense, not just in terms of his memory, but musically, and he always wanted me by his side. And Ms. Caballé had taken me to many places, yes, to Nice, to Oviedo, to Valencia, and always to the Liceu.

Where were you on January 31, 1994?

— It was Monday and there were no rehearsals at the Liceu. The auditorium was empty. There were stagehands. I was at Radio 4. Someone told me there was smoke coming from the Liceu and I came here. I stood on the Rambla with the onlookers. To my right was Josep Maria Alpiste, the concertmaster, and on the other side was the tenor Jaume Aragall. I was thinking, "We won't be able to do the opera tomorrow," which was Mathis the Painter, by Hindemith. When I saw the great explosion, that flame that came out from who knows what height, I understood that it was all over.

Did it feel like the end?

— I understood that nothing would ever be the same. The theater they've created, which is their third, isn't the same, but we should be grateful that it's very similar.

Did you feel comfortable?

— The first day of rehearsal on stage for the Turandot I already felt that it didn't sound like I was used to. The theater that burned down was all wood, it had excellent acoustics, and the theater we have now, although we see gold and velvet everywhere, underneath it's all concrete. It's impossible for a wooden theater built in 1862 and a concrete theater from 1999 to sound the same.

I know he has some special element of the Liceu at home.

— I have a cardboard box with "Relics of the Gran Teatre del Liceu" written on the lid. Inside there's a half-charred velvet piece, plaster, and bricks—things I collected two or three days after the fire. I'm a fetishist.

Does it also have an armchair?

— The wooden frame of an armchair. I received it as a gift in 2000, when I was celebrating my 25th anniversary at the theater. All the seats burned down, and they only found two wooden skeletons. They kept one as a model to recreate identical seats. Did you know my grandfather designed them? My grandfather, Francesc Tribó Capdevila, was a designer and painter during the Modernista period, and the Liceu commissioned him to design a chair for the stalls. I have the design my grandfather drew tattooed here [he shows me the band on his right chest].

What is your best memory related to music?

— I was fortunate enough to see Tebaldi and Callas as a spectator, so I came prepared, and I've been able to work with some of the greatest singers. I can remember Montserrat Caballé singing the Preguera, the prayer of the Mary Stuarda Donizetti, about two meters away from me. And there I was, in the audience. At that moment my heart was really pounding. I remember holding a solo with pianissimo, it rose to its flat, and on the flat sine with pianissimo opened the sound until it reached the fortissimoShe knew how to do this, and no one else did.

What memory would I like to forget?

— The seventies, the final years of the businessman Pàmias, were very difficult. I made my debut nine days after Franco's death! People were very afraid. We were doing Il cappello di paglia di Firenze by Nino Rota, which was a fun and beautiful show, and people would... [claps] and not much else. In 1977, they would throw eggs or tomatoes at cars going down the Rambla, cars with people who were dressed too provocatively. It was at a critical traffic light on Carrer Tallers, which was always red. People started to get scared, and I remember an opening with And due dark Verdi with the hall empty, empty.

Will you ever retire?

— No, because I'm healthy. In 2016 I had a heart attack and I didn't die. I was clinically dead for three hours and they resuscitated me. They told me I'd need eight or nine months to recover. After fourteen days I was in the trial ofThe trip to Reims by Rossini. I consider myself very fortunate. I have chosen a very rewarding job. I have a student in Zurich who is better than I am, Vladimir Junyent, who was by my side for three years. On April 4, 2047, the Liceu will be 200 years old, and I will be there. I will be 102 years old. I'm not asking for the moon. My father lived to be 102; so will I.