When mother knows best

The quiet speaking voice takes a bit of getting used to. It's not what we expect from the first lady of Bayreuth, she of the silvery hair and high-decibel heroics, she who, in operatic terms, must be obeyed. But Dame Gwyneth Jones left her divadom and damehood back in the dressing- room when she descended from her Wagnerian plateau to the lowly setting of the Royal Opera House's chorus rehearsal room for Sunday's masterclasses - part of the BOC Covent Garden Festival.

The big voice and temperament were pointedly under wraps for the occasion, the star quality glimpsed only in her radiant demeanour - a matter of bearing described to one young student as "like the prow of a galleon in full sail". Just so. "You must present yourself to your audience: physically, you must say to them - here I am." And there she was.

But the occasion, as Dame Gwyneth to her credit knew all too well, was not about her, but the seven participants - students of the Royal Northern College of Music. And she seemed to relish their charge, leading them into the arena rather like a mother with her brood.

And, like a good mother, she encouraged and coaxed and firmly but kindly took them in hand. She gave a comparatively wide berth to the more intangible questions of style and interpretation, preferring to concentrate on good, solid, practical, singerly advice of the kind that would carry them through every eventuality. Technique - the only key to longevity and survival. And Dame Gwyneth should know. "A relaxed, open throat, keep the tongue down, create plenty of vertical space... use the lips as a megaphone."

Mouth shapes, the position of the jaw and chin - such unglamorous but critical considerations were often accompanied by telling images: the vocal cords as a pair of angel's wings, or the likening of the palate to the covered orchestra pit at Bayreuth, projecting the blended sound out through the mouth into the auditorium. The apparent discomfort of achieving the correct oral aperture recalled Michael Caine's advice to a class of aspiring film actors: "Don't move a muscle: I know it feels uncomfortable, but it looks great."

And these youngsters sounded great. Alan Beck, a very promising second- year postgrad from Scotland, possessor of that rare and sought-after heldentenor colour - dark and baritonal - was especially receptive. He's off to Bayreuth to study. Dame Gwyneth concentrated on his legato, while he in turn was anything but shy of a Sieglinde who'd heard it all when it came to Siegmunds. Did she, for instance, prefer the open or head-mixed sound for the word Frau?

Andrea Creighton from New Zealand had decided over lunch that the "Jewel Song" from Gounod's Faust was definitely a kind of sexual awakening ("That's what pasta does for you," quipped Dame Gwyneth), while Denise Sartori, a hefty-voiced mezzo, half-Italian, half-Brazilian, came on strongly as Fricka, prompting some valuable advice from the Dame about over-singing: "Push the consonants, not the voice - less voice with crisp diction."

"Use the text, the word colour; understand it, sing on the sense, and mean what you sing." Cari Searle meant every word of Charlotte's aria "Va! Laisse couler mes larmes" from Massenet's Werther - the kind of wholeheartedness that transcends all technical considerations.

David Kempster, a pleasing baritone, admitted that his technical considerations were inhibiting thought and expression. Which duly brought a cautionary anecdote from Dame Gwyneth about a production of Don Carlos and a tenor who seemed so distant from her that she was finally moved to ask why. "We're supposed to be in love," she reminded him. "Oh," he replied, "I thought you were my mother."