Angelique
Tot

Some days you come home from a professional event feeling like you’ve vaguely ticked a box. Last Monday was not that. I came home from the Music in Me Summit energised in a way I did not quite expect, and I have been turning it over ever since.

The Summit is presented by the Australian Youth Orchestra and was held this year at ACO on the Pier in Sydney’s Walsh Bay Arts Precinct. Now in its third year, it brought together over 250 primary music educators for a full day of professional learning built around this year’s theme, Many Voices. One Classroom, a focus on diversity, inclusion and culturally responsive teaching. The program was genuinely varied: group singing, a neuroscience session, panel discussions, and more. I could not attend everything, and I was glad to hear it had all been recorded so I can catch up on what I missed.

The absolute highlight of the day was an In Conversation with Simone Young, hosted by ABC Classic presenter Genevieve Lang. I will be honest. I already knew who Simone Young was. I have been lucky enough to attend the Sydney Symphony Orchestra’s concert cycle of Der Ring des Nibelungen this year as an audience member, and it has been one of the genuine highlights of my year. Watching her conduct Wagner at that scale is something I will not forget in a hurry.

So, to then find myself sitting in a room with her talking to primary music educators, having, as she noted, essentially stepped off a plane, felt remarkable. Simone Young is internationally renowned and recognised as one of the great conductors of her generation. She was Artistic Director and General Music Director of the Hamburg State Opera and Hamburg Philharmonic for a decade. In 2024, she made history as the first woman ever to conduct Der Ring des Nibelungen at the Bayreuth Festival. She has stood on the great stages of the world. And she showed up to Walsh Bay on a Monday to talk to classroom teachers.

That means something.

What she said mattered even more. She spoke about her own education at a private school on Sydney’s Lower North Shore, and the music teachers who actively doubted her and put her abilities down. Coming from someone of her standing, it was not a comfortable thing to sit with. And the message she left us with has not left me:

Take care of the quiet ones in the class, because they are often the most capable, and they are the ones who need you most.

That connected directly to something raised in the earlier panel discussion on diversity. During audience questions, someone observed how frequently parents comment that they were told as children they could not sing, or express how grateful they are that their own child has been given the opportunity to learn music. It keeps coming up. A colleague confirmed they hear it constantly within their school community, and that it directly shapes how junior school performances and ensembles are structured.

The language we use around young singers and musicians carries further and longer than we realise. Paying attention to affirming language is not a small thing. It is the work.

The neuroscience session, led by Dr Anita Collins, educator, researcher, and the on-screen expert from the ABC documentary Don’t Stop the Music, was another highlight. She is an extraordinary communicator, translating complex brain research into something immediate and practical for classroom teachers.

Much of what she presented affirmed things I have already been trying to do in my own teaching. One example is normalising mistakes by separating the error from the child’s identity. Struggling with triplet rhythms does not mean a student is “bad at rhythm”; it simply means they have not mastered that skill yet.

Another idea that really resonated with me was her discussion of what she described as “art scars” — adults who carry the lasting effects of being told they were not musical, creative or artistic. We have all heard the phrases: “I can’t sing.” “I’m not artistic.” “I didn’t get into the choir.” Those experiences stay with people. They shape the way many parents view music education today. Some are incredibly grateful that their children have opportunities they never had, while others struggle to see the value because of their own negative experiences.

The research is becoming harder to ignore. The so-called Mozart Effect has evolved into something far more rigorous, and the evidence supporting music education continues to grow.

Simone Young also shared a story from her years in Germany. At her local school, teachers from mathematics and science would compete to be assigned to the music stream class, not because of the music itself, but because they knew those students came prepared in ways that crossed every subject: high-level preparation, the ability to focus, and the experience of working towards something collectively. Music was doing something the other subjects could not quite name, but absolutely noticed.

What struck me by the end of the day was that so many of the sessions arrived at the same conclusion from different directions. Simone Young spoke about the quiet child who is too easily overlooked. Dr Collins spoke about adults carrying the scars of careless comments made decades earlier. The panel discussed parents who still believe they “can’t sing”. Different speakers, different evidence, but the same responsibility: the words we choose as music teachers matter.

That, alongside the Kodály philosophy woven throughout the day, kept bringing me back to a quote shared early in the program:

“Often a single experience will open the young soul to music for a whole lifetime. This experience cannot be left to chance; it is the duty of the school to provide it.” — Zoltán Kodály

This was my first time attending the Music in Me Summit, and I hope it will not be my last. With the support of my school, I intend to keep coming back. Not just for the sessions or the speakers, though both were exceptional, but for what happens in the conversations in between.

Educators are stronger together. Critically reflecting on our programs, incorporating different perspectives, and being in a room with people who care as deeply about this work as you do, that is what keeps you moving forward.

The challenges in music education are real, and they are not going anywhere. But neither is the community of people committed to meeting them. Days like this remind me that I am part of that community, and that I have both the responsibility and the privilege of helping shape the way children see themselves as musicians.

It has been a sobering few weeks for Australia’s performing arts community. Within a matter of weeks, Beetlejuice announced it would end its Australian tour early, cancelling its remaining seasons in Sydney, Perth and Adelaide. Soon after, Waitress confirmed it would finish its run in Melbourne, with its planned Sydney season cancelled altogether. Earlier this year, Back to the Future: The Musical also abandoned plans for a national tour after its Sydney season. These are not isolated disappointments — they are signs of an industry under enormous financial pressure.

Behind every announcement are hundreds of people: performers, musicians, stage managers, wardrobe staff, technicians, creatives, venue workers and producers whose livelihoods depend on live performance. Months — and often years — of work can disappear overnight. Even if opera is my primary world, it is impossible not to feel the weight of what is happening.

I am a mezzo-soprano, and most of my work sits within opera, art song and choral music rather than commercial musical theatre. But those worlds are far closer than many people realise. They share artists, musicians, directors, audiences and, ultimately, the same belief that live performance matters.

When I was studying at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music, the idea of versatility was already central to our training. Alongside opera, we studied theatre acting, movement and dance — not only historical styles such as Baroque dance, but theatre jazz and contemporary stagecraft as well. The expectation was clear: today’s performer needed to be adaptable. That conversation continues today. Many classical singers successfully move between opera and musical theatre, and for some it becomes a rewarding and sustainable career. Crossover is a genuine craft that deserves enormous respect.

But recent events remind us that versatility alone cannot solve the problems the industry is facing right now. When an entire sector is struggling with rising production costs and the financial reality of touring across a country as vast as Australia, simply asking artists to diversify is not enough.

Live theatre has always been expensive to create. Every production represents thousands of hours of rehearsal, construction, design, administration and technical work before an audience ever walks through the doors. It asks audiences to choose a shared, live experience over countless cheaper alternatives available at home. When people do make that choice, something remarkable happens — a theatre becomes a place where strangers laugh together, cry together and leave changed together. That experience cannot be streamed or replicated.

I do not pretend there is a simple solution. The performing arts have weathered extraordinary challenges, and many artists continue to show remarkable resilience. But resilience should never become an excuse for expecting people to carry impossible uncertainty indefinitely.

If there is one thing I hope comes from this moment, it is a renewed appreciation for what it takes to keep live performance alive. Buy tickets early if you can. Talk about the productions you love, online and in person. Support independent companies alongside major commercial productions, and encourage the young people around you to attend the theatre. Advocate for meaningful arts funding whenever the opportunity arises — to your local member, on social media, at the dinner table. Every ticket purchased supports far more people than those standing under the spotlight.

I am also conscious of my own good fortune. This year, being part of Pacific Opera’s Young Artist Program has given me structure, mentorship and, most importantly, opportunities to keep singing. I do not take that lightly, particularly knowing how many extraordinarily talented colleagues are navigating uncertainty right now.

So where do I sit in all of this? With hope. Not naïve optimism, but hope grounded in the belief that music and theatre have always endured difficult seasons. They survive because people continue to create, audiences continue to gather, and communities continue to recognise that art is not a luxury — it is part of what makes us human.

I will keep singing. I will keep teaching. I will keep buying tickets. And I hope, whenever you are able, you will join me in supporting the people who dedicate their lives to bringing stories to the stage.

Two days ago I flew home from Melbourne. I had gone to visit my grandmother — my Starimama, as we say in Slovak — and while I was there, I decided to see Waitress.

The Sydney season had already been cancelled by then. When I heard it wasn’t coming to us, I thought — well, I’m going to Melbourne anyway. So I bought a ticket on the day, front and centre of the Dress Circle for $79.90, and went. I’m so glad I did. It reinforced something I’ve been thinking about a great deal lately: live theatre is never guaranteed, and sometimes you have to go to it rather than wait for it to come to you.

The production was beautifully crafted and heartfelt. The live band performed on stage throughout. I did notice the monitors weren’t on, which created some tuning challenges at points — something only a trained ear would likely pick up, but worth noting.

As often happens when I go to the theatre, I found myself watching through two lenses: as an audience member, and as a singing teacher. I left with pages of mental notes for my students. One lesson stood out above everything else.

Belting is a colour, not a destination.

It’s something I say regularly in lessons, and Waitress illustrated it beautifully. Sometimes young singers believe musical theatre success is measured by how long they can stay in a chest-dominant belt. It’s understandable — it sounds powerful, it commands attention, and it’s often the moment audiences remember. But great storytelling asks for far more than power.

The performances throughout were full of contrast: conversational singing that blurred naturally into speech, warm chest voice, effortless mixes, moments of breathy intimacy, carefully placed twang, expressive slides, and then — when the emotional stakes demanded it — belts that felt completely earned. That’s what made those moments land. If every phrase had been sung with maximum intensity, the emotional journey would have flattened. The biggest vocal moments only felt extraordinary because they were surrounded by vulnerability, restraint and colour.

Natalie Bassingthwaighte’s She Used to Be Mine was the moment everyone in the theatre was waiting for, and for the most part it delivered. At its best she moved fluidly between techniques — speech-like singing, pure chest voice, breathy head voice, strong mixing, sliding, riffing, and moments of genuine primal belt that felt earned. That variety is exactly what the song demands and exactly what I spend my teaching life trying to get students to understand. The technique is clearly there, and when it worked it was genuinely wonderful.

The ending, though, was a stumble. She brought the song home in a speech-like quality that was noticeably off pitch — and for the emotional peak of the entire show, that is a shame. I suspect the monitors being off didn’t help, and these things happen in live performance. But it did leave the moment slightly deflated when it had every reason to bring the roof down. A small thing in the context of an otherwise committed performance, but hard to unhear.

The supporting cast were, frankly, often the most consistently impressive singing of the night. Dawn’s characterisation stood out in particular. Her use of twang to represent the character’s nervous, self-conscious energy was deliberate and effective — and when her mix and belt cleared and rang out, it was crystal clear. You could track her confidence growing in real time simply through the changing colour of her voice. That is the kind of sophisticated, character-driven singing I wish more performers at every level were striving for.

Technique exists to give us choices. The more colours a singer has available, the more truthfully they can tell a story. Rather than chasing one sound, I want my students to become curious about the full palette — to discover that softness can be just as compelling as power, and that sometimes the quietest moment says the most.

I left the theatre grateful. Grateful to Starimama for giving me a reason to be in Melbourne. Grateful I bought the ticket instead of waiting. And grateful that, even after years of studying the voice, live performance still sends me home excited to teach.

It has been a proud few weeks. One of my students won her section at the Sydney Eisteddfod, and across various teen Musical Theatre categories my students came away with a first place, a third, and several Highly Commended. I could not be happier for them. And more recently, one of my young tenor students took 2nd place in Contemporary Performance U15 at the Sydney Eisteddfod — I am so proud of him.

That first place in Musical Theatre means a great deal, because a first in that genre is genuinely hard to win. Musical Theatre is enormously broad it spans styles, eras, and characters. What an adjudicator considers appropriate for a particular singer can vary widely. In addition to, their personal taste in stagecraft. To take out a section like that, a young performer has to win over not just the ear but the eye and the judgement of whoever happens to be the adjudicator on that day. It is a real achievement.

But I want to be just as clear about something else: I am equally proud of the students who prepared, walked on stage, gave everything they had, and came away with nothing at all.

Competition season is a strange time. Often parents and students become fixated and the result becomes the whole point, and the weeks of work behind it quietly disappear from view.

So I find myself repeating the same thing, again and again: the experience is what matters, not the podium. Walking out in front of an audience, nerves and all, and delivering something you have worked hard on that is the achievement. Recieving an award is one person's view on one afternoon, and as those Musical Theatre results show, that view shifts from judge to judge.

To the students who placed: congratulations, you earned it. And to those who did not: I saw the work, I saw the courage it took to walk out there, and I am proud of you in exactly the same measure. Keep going. That is where the real growth lives.

One thing that continues to puzzle me in junior eisteddfod sections is the number of children performing songs with lyrics, themes, and innuendos that are clearly beyond their years. Whether it is Olivia Rodrigo, Michael Jackson, or other popular artists, many young performers are presenting material that raises questions about age appropriateness.

The reality is that these students are often singing music they enjoy. Their parents may play it at home, they may hear it on the radio, and they may genuinely love singing along to it. However, there is a significant difference between casually enjoying a song and choosing it as a performance piece that represents them as an artist on stage.

This issue often becomes a dividing point for adjudicators. Some will take a strict view and may choose not to award a placing, regardless of the performer’s technical ability. Others may acknowledge strong vocal skills with a Highly Commended award. In some cases, the performer may still place on the podium. The inconsistency can make repertoire selection an important consideration for teachers and families.

More broadly, I believe the safeguarding of children’s repertoire has weakened in recent years. We have a well established movie classification system that helps guide what content is suitable for different age groups. I believe similar thought should be given when selecting music for young performers in competitions and eisteddfods.

Seeing an Under 12 performer sing about intense heartbreak, adult relationships, or finding love on a wild night out can feel uncomfortable and inappropriate. It also raises a larger discussion about where teachers and parents can find repertoire that is engaging, age appropriate, and still artistically rewarding.

One resource I regularly recommend is Full Voice Music. Their catalogue provides a wonderful starting point for teachers looking for repertoire that is wholesome, imaginative, and unique. It offers excellent alternatives to the standard Disney selections that often dominate children’s musical theatre anthologies, while still giving young singers meaningful opportunities to develop their artistry and storytelling skills.