Iāve written before about the singing group Iām in, a 60-voice choir that sings mostly classical literature. This choir has become āmy thingā the past several years, as I emerge from my mommy cocoon and start to spread my wings as a woman with adult children. This choir has given me my voice back, in more ways than one.
Tuesday night rehearsals have become a sacred space for me. During these evenings, nothing else gets scheduled, and I often trudge into rehearsal still carrying the burdens from the day. As I climb the steps to the second-floor choir room, the dayās headlines swirl around in my head, bumping into family worries, missed deadlines, and things I wish I hadnāt said. But as soon as 7 p.m. hits, our director plays a full chord on the piano and we begin our vocal warmups. For the next two and a half hours, my entire focus is on deep breaths, reading notes, and counting rests.
Our concert this week was one of my favorites. The chapel where we performed was filled with candlelight. The harsh overhead lights were lowered, and when I was on stage looking out into the audience, peopleās faces were illuminated by warm, flickering light.
It was lovely. Even though our final rehearsals can be somewhat tense, as we work out last-minute missed entrances and the director inevitably sends me to the back row (as a tall person, I have no hopes of ever graduating out of the back row), his last words to us before performing are usually delivered to us on stage after he has stepped down from the conductorās podium. With sweat on his brow, heāll pull up a chair, turn it backwards, straddle the seat, and look at us at eye level. Despite the entrances, the cut-offs, the Latin pronunciations, and breath marks we are all trying to keep straight from cryptic pencil marks we make on our score, he reminds us why we do any of this: to create something beautiful. To lift up one person who might be sitting in the audience who needs a beautiful distraction.
So when we take our first breath before our first note, I feel euphoric. The energy in the performance space is electric ā so different from the rehearsals. For one thing, the sound of the chapel, with its high ceilings, is an instrument of its own accord. The acoustics in that space give our music a heightened quality where notes are allowed to ring out longer and swirl together in glorious overtones.
For weeks, we practiced without an audience; now, the room is filled with faces staring expectantly at us.
I am from a family of musicians. I have attended probably hundreds of performances of my children and my husband alike. Before most performances, I see performers scanning the audience. It is a universal desire to see who is out there, surveying the crowd for familiar faces. The younger the performer, the more effusive their reaction when they see a familiar face in the crowd.
Hi, Mom!
Itās fun to see a grade schooler waving enthusiastically when finally locating their parents in the audience. By middle school, itās downgraded to a smile or a nod. By high school and beyond, you may detect just a slight upturn at the corners of the mouth.
From the back row of the risers, I search the crowd, going row by row until finally, I see them. I see the smiling faces in the crowd that belong to me. My inner child is jumping up and waving at them: Hi! I see you! Iām so glad youāre here!
Making something beautiful is rewarding in and of itself, but sharing it with others makes it something completely out of this world.
Live performances are my new drug. For a couple hours, strangers and friends alike are sequestered from the rest of the world to experience something that will happen only once. No two performances will ever be exactly alike. We will never recreate this combination of singers, musicians, and audience members again. Even the occasional coughs from the audience or the wail of a siren from outside the venue will never find the same rhythm.
A symphony in orchestra hall. A play put on by community theater. Stand-up comedy delivered in a dive bar. A musician playing his own composition on guitar. A dancer, arching her back gracefully and being gently caught and supported by her dancing partner. All these things are sacred and mysterious and beautiful. All these things stand alone on their merit. But they are made infinitely more meaningful by faces in the crowd.
