December, 2016
There Are Two Means Of Refuge From The Miseries Of Life: Music And Cats. (Albert Schweitzer)
Choir practices always go up in number and duration when Christmas rolls around. From November on, two days become three and they often run late. Such is life.
Summer of 2016 we got an email from Russell G. Power (the "G" supposedly stands for God; the senior kids tagged him with that decades ago and it's stuck ever since), music dictator—I mean music director—letting us know that the Christmas schedule would start earlier… as in the Tuesday after Labor Day. Tuesday, Wednesday AND Thursday for three and a half months. Failure to attend rehearsals would result in exclusion from all Christmas programming. Period
All? Two pageants and a midnight service, all on Christmas Eve. There had never been such stringent rules before; something was in the works.
The first day, we found out why 'God' was being such a hardnosed SOB. In addition to her weekly Sunday service notebook AND her Christmas pageant and service notebook, Lexi came home bearing the greater Washington, D.C. phone book. Oops, wrong. Make that… the full score from Handel's "Messiah." Apparently right after the New Year there had been a decision to hold a special concert on the Mall the following Christmas. Choirs from the Tri-State area, with the musical backing of the USMC orchestra, were going to be performing en masse at the National Mall the Saturday before Christmas Eve.
Because tryouts would have taken forever, the coordinators did secret tryouts—they fanned out over Virginia, DC and Maryland, listened to choirs during services (secretly taping them, too), compared notes and then sent out invitations. They shot for two Episcopal, two Lutheran, two Baptist, so on and so forth, but that didn't work out. For example, one of the teeny, tiny Anglican churches (so tiny that Ducky didn't even know they existed—which is why he ended up going with kissing cousin Episcopal Church) had a choir that would knock your socks off—but the entire congregation was under a hundred, the choir under fifteen members. So they went with fifty members plus-or-minus from each denomination… and then sent out invitations at the end of spring. "Pride may be a sin," Mr. Power said grimly. "But when you get up there, I want every other choir director to look at his or her group and say, 'If you work harder, YOU could sound that good.'"
Usual practice for the kids' choirs was Tuesday and Thursday. St. Cecelia was 3:30 to 5:00. The junior/senior high choir had the 5:00 to 6:30 slot. Normally there was an hour of actual practice and a half hour of chitchat and messing around scattered throughout. Not this time. Knowing how hard this piece was and what was on the line, even the littlest kids buckled down. When the kids joined the adult choir on Wednesdays from 5:00 to 7:00 I heard several adults saying they should do this all the time if it would keep the kids in line. (A lot of the adult choir members had kids in the junior choirs and they knew how practices usually went.)
Ducky and I traded off driving Lexi; occasionally we drove together. It was easier (and cheaper) to just wait at church or sit at the coffee shop down the way and read over pie and tea. Usually I would hang out at the church office and shoot the breeze with Fr. Parker or help the church secretary, Beverly Parker (no relation), with some of the never-ending busywork.
"Why don't you join the choir?" she asked one week.
"Russell G. Power scares me."
She laughed. "He is kind of a bear, but they love him."
Bear? The man snarls, bellows, yells, "What in the h-e-double hockey sticks!" and throws things. Never at anyone, but, still…! And when he's conducting? Think of Sister Act. Picture Whoopi Goldberg as she conducted the choir: spinning, gyrating, waving her arms like she's flagging in a 747, bent double and frantically coaxing notes from the choir. Now: turn her into a beyond middle-aged, balding, potbellied, scowling white dude who ends up with facial expressions reminiscent of medieval gargoyles. Add on phenomenal scoring, piano, and organ skills (among the half-dozen instruments he can play—and he can play ragtime and boogie woogie like nobody else)… and there you have Russell G. Power.
A week before the concert date they had a massed choir and orchestra rehearsal. The whole… day… long. (This was really putting a crimp in shopping and other holiday plans—but it was a once in a lifetime thing, so there was no bitching.) It took very little work to blend the voices, even with trading directors every 10 minutes or so to give each director a chance to shine during the over two and a half hour (plus intermission!) show; the hard part was getting hundreds of singers from 7 to 77 (actually 91, if you're picky) onstage neatly and quickly, filing in from four angles and crossing like a precision drill team to get onto miles and miles of risers. They did two full dress run-throughs of the actual performance (it was interesting to see the widely divergent choir robes up on the risers)—and more than a dozen of walk on/walk off. There were collisions and trippings (no real injuries, thank heavens) and by dinner break they were ready to take on the USC marching band. Ducky and I took hours of video for later editing—and we were exhausted. Pulling off "Hallelujah Chorus" is one thing; I think every person involved, especially the singers (and especially the kids), deserved some sort of award. (For the whole season Mr. Power was letting all the choirs fall back on we-know-it-cold hymns for Sunday service that needed only five-minute run-throughs, and everyone looked at the Christmas pageant songs as a nice break. This show was their main focus.)
As we gathered for a last info dispersal before heading home, Mr. Power tersely announced there would only be a Wednesday rehearsal before Saturday's show. Then he left.
The adult choir members just shrugged; the little kids were baffled. One of the high school singers sighed. "I guess he figures more practice won't help," she said morosely.
"Yeah, did you hear that first soprano from Colonial View? Jeez!"
"You mean Mariah Carey?" someone said sarcastically.
"You mean Yma Sumac?" an older woman tossed over her shoulder. She missed the "hunh?" looks between the kids.
"I thought we sounded pretty good," Lexi said sadly as she climbed into the car.
"Sweetie, you did! You guys sounded fabulous!" I said, twisting around from my shotgun seat.
"I hoped he'd at least smile."
"I'll bet he's giving you two rehearsals off because you sounded so great."
She sighed. "It's like Callie said. He figures more practice won't help, this is as good as it's gonna get. We can't pull off a miracle in a week."
"Honey, you did pull off a miracle."
"That is an incredibly difficult piece," Ducky chimed in. "And combining choirs from so many different denominations and areas makes it even more so. You should be very proud of what you've accomplished. All of you should."
Things didn't improve the next day—not from Lexi's standpoint. They flew through their songs during the 9:30 service; all they heard in the change room was, "Good job, girls, see you Wednesday." Nothing more than his usual comment.
On Wednesday, we went to drop her off in the rehearsal room—and found Fr. Parker, Fr. Knowles and Bev Parker waiting outside. So was everyone else. (It looked like the crowd outside Wal-Mart before the Thanksgiving Black Friday sale: a huge mob, only friendlier.)
"What's up?" I asked Bev. "Someone forget to unlock the choir room?"
"No—Russell wants everyone to come in all at the same time. And parents are to stay."
Ducky winced faintly. He hadn't minded the all day rehearsal on Saturday, but this was a 'school night' for him.
Bev shrugged. "Don't ask me, I just work here."
We didn't have long to wait. The right half of the double doors flew open, and the scowling face of Mr. Power emerged. "What are you all doing standing around outside? It's freezing! Get in here, for Pete's sake!"
People started filing in—as they entered, I heard them laugh, applaud, even cheer. Ducky, Lexi and I entered… and began to laugh.
The baby grand in the middle of the practice room was closed; atop it sat two huge cakes and stacks of plates and napkins and forks. Tables on one side of the room held party platters and chips; tables on the other side, cans of soda and cartons of milk and juice. The blackboard in the back of the room was pre-painted with musical staves; across the lines he had printed in large, thick letters CONRATULATIONS TO THE BEST CHOIR OF THE MESSIAH ASSEMBLAGE!
All of the kids looked like they were birthday celebrants hit with a surprise party. Not far off—they were floored. We crowded into the room; once we were all inside, 'God' stood on the top riser and whistled for attention. Sudden silence. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "All of you were on the Mall last Saturday," he said, pointing around the room to the choir members at large. "Some of you—" he indicated the parents almost dismissively, "—were there. Those of you who weren't—" He glowered at the room… then burst into a grin. "Missed one phenomenal show! I have never—never—been so—" He choked up. He pulled off his glasses and wiped his eyes. "So… proud of any group of singers I've conducted. You deserve a huge round of applause for your talent and dedication. Not one person has missed even one rehearsal."
"You said you'd can us if we did!" came an anonymous voice from the back of the room.
"Aaaaah—I wouldn't have kicked you out for one missed rehearsal." He grinned for the second time. "Maybe two." The roomful of people laughed. "But you pulled it out and ran the distance. You were just… out of this world. Like I said, you deserve a round of applause—and I'm starting it."
Slow, loud claps that sounded like cracks of thunder in the quiet room, they grew in speed and volume as others joined in until everyone was clapping like they were at the reunion of the Beatles. Screaming, clapping, laughing and jumping up and down and hugging one another. Mr. Power hadn't just smiled… he had grinned at them. They must have done pretty good!
"Now—eat!" he commanded. He glared at the parents. "You, too, you deserve something for dragging your kids here every night without fail." He stomped down the risers to the floor and everyone scattered to the food tables.
Lexi was still stunned—and on an emotional high that would keep her afloat for a week. "He really thought we were good?"
"Honey, I told you you were good," I said.
"Yeah, but—"
"'But' nothing. If you can make Mr. Power almost cry—you were beyond good."
She grinned. "When you put it that way…"
Happy holidays, one and all!