Joy in the Musical World

I have always had an ear for music.  There is nary a song played on the vintage, oldies and light rock stations to which I can't sing along.  More often than not, even without the radio on, there is a song rumbling around in my head (it's a blessing or a curse, depending on the song).  Like it or not, music is as much a part of my life as breathing.  

The Midwest is known for its support of choral music and I feel fortunate to have grown up in that climate.  From the sixth grade on I sang in school choirs and in the contemporary and adult choirs at church. Growing up during the raucous time of Vatican II, I sang all the great contemporary Catholic hymn hits such as "Be Not Afraid" and "Eagle's Wings" with as much feeling as my young heart could muster. Eventually I found my way to the stage and musical theater and emoted from there. 

After college it was challenging to find a place to sing.  As an adult there was no built-in place for music.  Citing irreconcilable differences I'd stopped attending church and other adult choir options were either too focused on a single style of music, too professional or too unprofessional.  I was looking for something that was just right. 

After a number of years not singing I surprised myself by joining the Basilica choir in Minneapolis.  It was still status quo between me and church but a friend sang baritone there so I'd heard them sing a few times.  Never mind that they were a church choir- they were a really good choir!  One Wednesday night in January I attended a rehearsal and for the next seven years I was a second soprano in good standing.    

Our choir ranged in size between seventy and one hundred people and, when it swelled to that size, the choir stalls were packed tight.  It was a rare treat to be singing with that many people- I don't even think my college choir was that large.  The volume of sound we could create was massive but it was almost as exciting to hear how utterly quiet we could be.

Through singing I've always found a way to connect with beauty and that happened frequently at the Basilica.  We had the great good fortune of singing in a building built for drama and sound.  Inside that large, stone space, once we stopped singing the reverberations continued for an additional seven seconds.  Our notes would hang in the air like the thin trail of smoke from an extinguished candle curling upward until it disappeared.

With liturgical music, every Sunday is a different theme and it’s the choir’s job to back that up.  Because of that, we plowed through music and my musical skills were challenged and improved.  Old music, new music, pieces commissioned just for us--- it was thrilling and daunting.  

There were times when a piece would be rehearsed maybe twice before a performance- uh, mass.  Important or difficult pieces got more rehearsal time but sometimes that was just an additional two run-throughs.  Our director was Protestant percussionist and I relied heavily on her cues to know where, when and how to come in and what to do.  Early on I realized that to be in this choir was to be a good sheep: follow, follow, follow, follow. 

During my youth my parents paid for more years of piano lessons than I'd care to note here.  Despite all that training I am not very good at counting; I sing by feel.  Counting is an exacting and vitally important skill especially when singing or playing with others.  If you can’t count out your line, giving the correct value to the notes and rests, you won't be singing the same music as your choir neighbor.  And neighbors, as we well know, have set certain standards that must be met by those who live in their neighborhood.  If you can't meet those standards you may be asked to move… out. 

Sight reading is also a skill I never grasped; I learn through practice.  The first few times through a new piece of music it can be difficult for me to interpret whatever it was that the composer had intended.  I am very good at repeating what I've heard and, through practice, can produce a fine piece of music.  But cold-reading two lines at a time, be that two hands at the piano or two lines of singing (the notes and the words), is beyond my reach.   

Being a part of church choir the two big gigs a year are Easter and Christmas services; Easter is actually the bigger event as there’s an entire week of singing involved.  But Christmas is three services that are back-to-back-to-back: one long, late Eve service, then one early and one later morning Day services.  With either event it’s a lot of singing. 

Christmas is like a marathon with a big hill thrown in at the end for good measure as each mass concludes with the perennial favorite, The Halleluiah Chorus (THC).  As challenging as that music was, standing in the choir, singing music that had been sung by thousands of people for hundreds of years in a beautiful space, those were moments of unbridled joy for me.   

As with any marathon the first leg of the journey, the Christmas Eve performance, was stellar: we were fresh and sassy and thrilled to be there.  At the end of the piece the standing-room-only crowd broke into applause and we were like “Uh huh!  That’s right!  You better believe we're good!”  We flew out of there on a musical high, home to sleep for a few hours before we were up and at it again.   

The next morning I'd drag myself out of bed, eat a piece of pumpkin pie (it’s made from a vegetable and ever so portable…) and drive across the sleeping town to church.  The normal people were all pretty groggy but there were always a few chipper morning people who irritated the heck out of me.  This was probably aggravated by my lack of sleep and having to be up so early.   

One benefit that offset our break-of-dawn call time was the visual difference between the Eve and Early Morning masses.  The light, oh, the light!  At night the sanctuary was dark, lit predominantly by candles, so even with the huge crowd of people it felt private and close.  In the morning the sun poured through the massive two-and-a-half story stained glass windows casting light and color throughout the space.  Reds, blues, greens and yellows were scattered on the ground like so much candy in a parade. 

Our choir was now smaller in numbers than on the Eve as those who had family commitments weren't there.  By the end of that mass we were all warmed up and rallied nicely for THC, The Second Coming.  At the end of the piece the congregation clapped heartily and we were like “Oh yea!  We did it... a-gain!"  

Those of us who would stay on for the morning’s second mass were buoyed on by the heavenly scent of the breakfast that awaited us: egg dish, bacon and sweet rolls.  It was a courtesy (or bribe) which we gladly took as there was no time to go anywhere else and we were indeed hungry.  So now, with tummies full of good eats, we, the ones with families that understood our desire to sing all three masses and/or with no children, made our way to the choir stalls for the final leg of the marathon.  

Armed with a thermos of hot broth to soothe my sore throat, I was more resigned than anything else: my energy for the final leg of this marathon was waning.  And it wasn't just me.  As a group we had almost nothing left to give.   Three masses in twelve hours is a lot of singing.  Knowing this would be the natural state of things, our director had more congregant hymns than choral pieces in this final mass. 

But, just as with the two previous services, when it came to the end of the mass we got ready to sing THC, The Triumvirate, and we tired, singing soldiers rallied to the occasion!  "Once more unto the breach, dear friends!  Once more unto the breach!"  The director cued the organ (with all the stops pulled), the brass section (hired in just for the holiday services) and then us and the jubilation of the experience kicked back into high gear.   

I couldn't hear myself let alone anyone else around me over the pipe organ.  With the brass’s bright notes sparkling above it all we hit our last notes and watched our director who had a look of fierce determination on her face.  Her hands spread wide, her head nodding for ‘More! C'mon, more!’ we took the crescendo where we didn't know we could still go and then, the cut off!  

Our notes hung in the air: one thousand one… one thousand six, one thousand seven.  We had done it a third time!  Those congregants who had stayed to hear this final anthem were already on their feet wrapped up in their winter coats and ready to head back out into the bright day.  They broke into hearty applause.  This time we were like "I can't believe it---  we're done!  We're done!!"

It felt good to have our work, our hours of preparation and perspiration, appreciated year after year but that’s not why I did it.  I did it to be a part of something greater than myself- an attribute of music often overlooked- and to bring beauty into the world.  That’s why I’m here.   

The rest of Christmas Day was spent napping and eating wonderful food other people had cooked.  Our choir wouldn't meet up again for two weeks, a break we all needed.  Once we did, we were on the march toward Easter week and that always came sooner than we expected.