bloodsport

Singing, for me, is one of those “challenge” activities. Other people may scale cliffs or jump out of airplanes; I choose to sing. Just like the gymnast driven to repeat skills until they may be executed with exacting precision, so do I approach my weekly choir rehearsals. I probably won’t make the cut for the Olympic team, but I thrill to the exhausting exercise of trying to get it right.

Choral singing, my sport of choice, is team sport. Part of getting it right is having the patience and the interest to quietly, nay silently, support the other sections when the focus shifts to them. It may take the basses (or tenors, or altos) ten minutes to knock the rough edges off this or that particular phrase as the night slowly slides from nine to nine-thirty and everyone has less energy and less patience. Developing the stamina to listen attentively to the instruction being given to someone else, then applying the key bits of information to what you yourself are singing is a hard fought goal where the offensive and defensive lines must work together.

Last night’s choir rehearsal, in my humble opinion and from my narrow perspective, was what sports announcers might call a massacre. It was the sort of vicious bloodletting that I normally associate with cockfighting and figure skating. Mind you, the singers were for the most part well-behaved amongst themselves. Inevitably, we had the requisite amount of passive-aggressive scheming. There were the usual and expected stiff arm maneuvers to secure the optimal seat with an unobstructed view of the conductor, enough light to read the music, and enough distance from the person who drives you straight over the garden wall that you don’t have to sit thigh to thigh with them. All in all, it was your basic Thursday night. No, the choristers were not the victims of yesterday’s exsanguinations.

Nor, as you might expect, was the conductor the object of the brutal attack waged between dinner and the evening news. Last evening’s rehearsal was conducted by the leonine assistant organist, a veritable tomcat of a musician, who valiantly endures these weekly skirmishes with the exasperated patience of a tabby trapped under a toddler. And, in fact, when he bares his claws or shows his fangs as he did yesterday, he does so with predatory restraint. Fear not for the assistant organist; he can fend for himself.

It was music herself who was so cruelly assaulted last night.

I cannot claim to have been in raptures over the music chosen. Earth Day is this weekend and we’re having a gluttonous feast of some sticky sweet pieces. I have never liked All things bright and beautiful. I don’t like the hymn setting. I’m not enthusiastic about the Rutter setting we’re singing this Sunday, which I know well and wickedly lampooned in a staff meeting earlier in the week. However as much as I may disdain the text itself, I don’t believe it merits the clumsy, jackbooted tread of nearly a score of wannabe Wagnerian sopranos marching across the melody line in a vain push to the sea. This puff pastry piece, so easily rendered a treacle-laden glob, instead became a battering ram. Ouch.

What came next was like a scene from a slasher film as Mary thro’ the garden went with a chain saw. Of the three anthems we worked on, this Stanford composition was the only one which was new for me and I was looking forward to getting a little meat along with the sugar cookie Earth Day repertoire. I wasn’t expecting to hear the soprano section rip the haunches from the score and proceed to devour them with wild smacking of gums and gnashing of teeth, tearing up the earth and leaving behind a blood soaked field. Mary was chased trembling through the garden by maniacal, hatchet-wielding sopranos screaming for gory revolution. Somehow I don’t think we quite managed the air of hushed expectancy evoked by the image of the Magdalene woman hurrying toward the tomb. Rather, I suspect our banshee wail would have terrified even Christ himself on that first Easter morn.

The final insult of the evening was again dealt to Mr. Rutter. Poor bastard, he never saw it coming. In an evening strewn with carnage, there was, I suppose, no hope of salvaging anything For the beauty of the earth. Having labored intensely for 90 minutes (because, let’s face it, slaughter is no easy work), we stumbled mightily over this straight-forward hymn anthem and crushed it in the process. No conquering army in history has ever managed to so successfully vanquish the opposition—without actually bringing them into submission—as we were able to do last night. Our scorched earth approach assures that never again will the easy strains of this simple melody float through the skies without being bombarded by friendly fire. Twice through in rapid succession and all that was left were the tattered remains of a once beloved tune.

I love singing, truly I do. And, hard as it may be to believe after my hyperbolic report of the evening’s activities, I am coming to really enjoy this group. Still, I’m wondering if this is really the right place for me. I need the discipline, the challenge. I’m never going to run marathons, or ski cross country, or win game, set and match. Singing is what gets my heart rate up and causes adrenaline to course through my veins. I’ve just never really thought of it as a bloodsport.