As I write this, I’m at the beginning of an 11-day European tour as a member of a choir. Over the next week, we will sing concerts in the Czech Republic, Austria, and Hungary.
Tonight, our first concert is in Prague. We have rehearsed, but now that the performance is drawing near, tensions are high. It’s hot. The performance hall we are in does not seem to be air conditioned.
We’ve warmed up our voices, but there are still a few measures to be worked out. Our conductor mops his face and speaks gruffly. He’s giving off Dad vibes, and Dad is mad.
On top of it all, I’ve forgotten my music. I know exactly where it is, too: back at the hotel room, where I laid the black folder in plain sight where I “wouldn’t forget it.” I try not to draw attention to myself by frantically asking my choir mates if anyone has extra music, but I am fighting to hold back tears of anxiety. Who forgets their music for a concert? I do — that’s who. Miraculously, a fellow alto has an extra folder of music and lets me borrow it. I am saved. The knot in my stomach loosens.
Each performance I’ve been in has this similar arc: First, there is excitement and the confidence that we’re well-rehearsed and ready; we warm up by running through a piece or two, where we inevitably trip up over a few measures. Our director claps his hands sharply to get our attention. “You have to watch, folks! We can’t end together if your eyes are glued to your music!” We begin again.
General antsiness ensues. Feet shuffle. Weight is redistributed. A few sighs escape us, but quietly: now is not a good time to annoy our director. His lips are pursed and beads of sweat perch on his forehead until one by one they roll down the side of his face. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. We try the offending measures again and again.
More sighs. More beads of sweat.
Finally, we’ve done what we can to iron out the wrinkles. The audience will arrive soon.
Backstage, our director’s face softens.
“Why are we here?” he asks.
“To represent the U.S.?” someone says.
“Yes, but even more than that, we’re here to have fun.” He looks at us warmly. When he smiles, the smile spreads to his eyes, too. I get the feeling he’s giving himself this pep talk as much as he’s giving it to us.
This time when we step out onto the stage, an audience is waiting for us. I wonder why they decided to come to tonight’s performance. None of them know us. We don’t know them. Because of the language barrier, we would be hard-pressed to have anything beyond a superficial conversation with each other. For the next hour, we will converse through a universal language: the sacred trinity of song, applause, and smiles. From the third row, a friendly woman gives us a thumbs up. It is such a sweet and genuine gesture that it makes me impatient to start singing. Our director steps into the podium. He is focused, but his eyes sparkle with the hint of a relaxed smile.
His hands go up and we wait pensively for our cue. We’ve been transfigured from a tangle of unruly individuals to a single body, breathing together and pronouncing our consonants in unison.
This is why we’re here: to spend an hour or so with a roomful of strangers. To share music. We’ll do it again tomorrow and the next night. By the end of each hour, we’ll no longer be strangers.
