In memoriam Berty Rice

Berty Rice (1971-2026). Photo credit: Ben McKee

I’ve hesitated about writing this tribute. I didn’t know Berty Rice, my singing teacher for the last few years, anything like as well as so many did. But over the course of around 30 singing lessons, I was, for want of a better word, changed. I learnt so much from Berty technically, but also from the manner in which he taught and carried himself professionally, from his thirst for vocal knowledge and insight, and from his reflections on the world of singing and choral music. I wanted to write some of my thoughts down for fear of the special memories of learning from Berty fading over time, but also in the hope that these appreciative if rambling words might be of some consolation to other of his pupils.

Like so many people, I was fortunate to be taught by Berty, if only briefly, on an Eton Choral Course, which for me was now two decades ago. By this point Berty already had a special aura as a teacher, and even we naive teenagers realised how lucky we were to receive his guidance. Many years later, I was newly in London and wrote to Berty to see if he had space to take me on. Thankfully he did – though grabbing a lesson slot was always a challenge. Berty sent out his available lesson times and they would be snatched up within hours.

My suspicion is that Berty, like all brilliant teachers, could meet all of his students exactly where they were. He had a reputation for helping talented young singers, choral scholars at university choirs. But he was also the trusted singing teacher for professional singers at all stages of their careers. For me, best described as a lapsed or occasional professional singer, he was adept at unpicking bad habits, retraining my brain and my voice, offering a sympathetic word whenever necessary.

In my lessons, when we met an obstacle caused by a flaw in my technique, Berty was never the least bit fazed. He would simply work through the problem methodically, getting me to try a range of sometimes mysterious exercises until something would click, or unlock. And all of a sudden I would be singing high and low and it would feel like the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. I imagine many of Berty’s pupils had experiences with him like this, and I hope that our delight when this happened gave him something of the satisfaction it gave us.

Once a technical hurdle had been overcome (usually only temporarily in my case), Berty would sometimes give an explanation of his approach, to try and pass on what he felt had been the problem and how he had fixed it. When Berty shared his workings in this way, I was always blown away by the breadth and depth of his knowledge. And what I admired most of all was that he was never satisfied in his understanding of the voice – there was always another perspective to consider, a new study, a conference on Feldenkrais, an expert on nasal resonance on YouTube.

Quite frankly, I would regularly sing in my lessons with Berty in a way I didn’t realise I could. I would walk out on cloud nine. Looking back, I’m glad I overcame English reservedness to pass this on to Berty how grateful I was for his transformative help. I did say a couple of times that I hoped Berty would consider compiling his immense learnings into a book, in order to help even more people. I’m not sure he liked the idea – he was probably too modest to consider it. But I’m sorry now that it won’t come to pass.

Berty was aware that I worked as a choir conductor, and so he often related technical ideas back to that role. Through his teaching I became, I hope, a more thoughtful and knowledgeable conductor. More responsive to singers, both amateur and professional. More aware of what they might need from me, both in terms of gesture and speech. More considerate of the delicate psychology and complex physicality that underpins singing. I imagine there are plenty of other conductors who have also benefited in similar ways.

In my final lesson with Berty, the situation was far from ideal. Berty’s main teaching venue was a church hall, which occasionally had competing bookings. On this particular February afternoon, there was a wake downstairs, which involved many guests and very loud, bass-heavy music. This made singing teaching a challenge, and as I arrived Berty was on the phone to an alternative venue. No luck, so Berty went off to politely ask the caterers in the kitchen how long the wake, now past its scheduled conclusion, would continue. He returned seconds later and grabbed his water bottle which he took with him to refill – explaining that this would be a tool to make his question seem less confrontational. How characteristically thoughtful and diplomatic.

With no end to the wake’s loud music in sight, we persisted with the lesson. In these less-than-auspicious circumstances, Berty nevertheless worked his usual wonders. I’d recently had a negative singing experience, and Berty helped me reflect on this and build some confidence back. In the space of a 1 hour lesson, he covered Tibetan breathing exercises, happy memories of concerts he had sung with I Fagiolini, the longitudinal nature of the fight or flight reflex and how sideways glances in a stressful situation can help mitigate this. I was very touched that seemingly out of nowhere, Berty made reference to my history of playing the trumpet and the violin, something we’d talked about briefly years ago in my first lesson. Most memorably of all, Berty, with the aim of getting me to adjust my solar plexus while singing, asked me to put my hand on his chest while he sang, in his effortless, inimitable way. It’s a memory I’ve returned to in the past couple of months. A deeply personal moment of trust and contact. Total commitment to helping a pupil through a tricky spot. As so often happened, I walked out of the lesson feeling like a completely different singer.

Grief plays tricks on the mind, and I’m sure like many of Berty’s pupils, a couple of months after his death I still have the occasional thought along the lines of: I really must try and see Berty for a lesson soon. Sadly for all of us that studied with him, we have to be content with the time we were able to spend with Berty, and savour all of the wisdom and expertise he passed on to us. My deepest condolences are with his family and friends, who have suffered the most enormous loss. Last week at Berty’s memorial service, a choir of his friends sang extraordinarily beautiful music to honour him. It was deeply moving, most of all when the massed voices sang the eight-part Amen from Gerald Finzi’s Lo the Full Sacrifice, and the soaring closing Amen from Robert Parsons’ Ave Maria, voices giving their all, through floods of tears, in one final tribute. Amen and Amen. Thank you, Berty.