Sunday, December 12, 2015.
Christmas Present. MA's Favorite Is My Least.
Knowing how to do something doesn't come right after the practice sessions. Every practical and artistic skill I've ever attempted to learn refused to sink in until a few days after I made myself learn it. And there is such a thing as being over-rehearsed, and that's what I am today, the day I am to give forth with a solo in front of a group of seventy-five good singers and a couple hundred audience members. My cramming will get me though, but how well?
On a number of occasions, I heard Johnny Carson--the all-time grandmaster of his craft--say that every day, as he stood behind the curtain waiting for it to open, he had a varying case of the jitters. He said that a bit of tension was essential to delivering on stage, and that feeling calm was a harbinger of a dull show. I decide to rely on that principle.
I have a little breakfast, take a long walk and then a nap. I feel better about things. And then I run a little late getting to the auditorium for the pre-show quick rehearsal. Alissa Rowe, our conductor, skips over my bit, saying she was sure it would be solid. Besides, there are two trumpet players that have to be integrated with the NPAS chorus.
And then we're singing to a nearly-full house. The audience is composed almost entirely of the friends and relatives of the performers. Mary Ann decides that even though she took in our show two days ago, she will see it again in this more formal setting. Also on our side is that the concert is of familiar, feel-good Christmas tunes.
[caption id="attachment_49980" align="alignnone" width="480"]
MPAS singers backstage during intermission.[/caption]
My song is certainly one of those: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." It's the second-to-last song on the bill. I can't run my four lines any more, because I'm up there singing all the other songs, in the comforting wrapper of the rest of the chorus, where imperfections blend into perfection.
And here I go. I weave my way down through the chorus risers (I'm standing near the back of it) and over to the microphone. I am holding a Christmas bag containing one of the Christmas tree ornaments I bought yesterday: a glittery, flashing-color little Christmas present with a bow. Written on the back of the bag are the lyrics of my four-line verse.
I get a musical introduction from our brilliant accompanist. I sing, beginning on the correct note. I can't remember whether I looked at the lyrics, but I get them all right, too. "Christmas present is here today, bringing joy that will last," I sing, and am done. The chorus begins its much more familiar part of the song. I would ordinarily drop back among them, but working my way up through the tight group would have been a disruption. I back away from the microphone, and let my voice camouflage with the others.
When the song ends, I move over to Dr. Rowe's lectern, put my glowing little Christmas present on it, and disappear. It was a last-second touch I had just thought of, and we have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.
Even after thousands of live radio and television shows, hundreds of speeches to large groups, and a few dozen singing opportunities, I've never felt so intense as I did performing this friendly Christmas song. I can breathe again.
It's only about four-thirty. Mary Ann says that because she came to listen to me today, she has the right to decide where we will have dinner. I can't argue with that, even though I know that it will be The Chimes, my least favorite among all her favorite places to dine. If you can call that dining. She always gets the same thing: a club salad. What she really likes here is not the food, but the open-air decks looking into the riverbed of the Bogue Falaya, with its goats wandering around and cypress trees reaching high into the sky.
I've seen all that before, however. And I've had all the food, too. Most of it I find mediocre. But that wasn't the case in the early going, when the menu was more interesting. I get to talking with the waiter about this. Specifically, I tell him about the excellent soups du jour that The Chimes used to have. Now the soup du jour is little different from the regular soups. The manager comes over to hear me. I'm not sure whether anything will come of this. I am, after all, dressed in the NPAS men's chorus uniform: a tuxedo. That alone, in this very casual sports bar and eatery, must have made me look like a nutbar.
[caption id="attachment_28268" align="alignnone" width="480"]
The view from the deck at The Chimes.[/caption]
I have a dozen raw oysters. The oyster bar and grill has been the only consistently good part of the menu at The Chimes. (Although the brunch dishes come close.) The rest of it leaves me cold. But how can I think of such things after knocking my solo out of the park?
Well, I thought I did. And nobody said, "Keep your day job."
MPAS singers backstage during intermission.[/caption]
My song is certainly one of those: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." It's the second-to-last song on the bill. I can't run my four lines any more, because I'm up there singing all the other songs, in the comforting wrapper of the rest of the chorus, where imperfections blend into perfection.
And here I go. I weave my way down through the chorus risers (I'm standing near the back of it) and over to the microphone. I am holding a Christmas bag containing one of the Christmas tree ornaments I bought yesterday: a glittery, flashing-color little Christmas present with a bow. Written on the back of the bag are the lyrics of my four-line verse.
I get a musical introduction from our brilliant accompanist. I sing, beginning on the correct note. I can't remember whether I looked at the lyrics, but I get them all right, too. "Christmas present is here today, bringing joy that will last," I sing, and am done. The chorus begins its much more familiar part of the song. I would ordinarily drop back among them, but working my way up through the tight group would have been a disruption. I back away from the microphone, and let my voice camouflage with the others.
When the song ends, I move over to Dr. Rowe's lectern, put my glowing little Christmas present on it, and disappear. It was a last-second touch I had just thought of, and we have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.
Even after thousands of live radio and television shows, hundreds of speeches to large groups, and a few dozen singing opportunities, I've never felt so intense as I did performing this friendly Christmas song. I can breathe again.
It's only about four-thirty. Mary Ann says that because she came to listen to me today, she has the right to decide where we will have dinner. I can't argue with that, even though I know that it will be The Chimes, my least favorite among all her favorite places to dine. If you can call that dining. She always gets the same thing: a club salad. What she really likes here is not the food, but the open-air decks looking into the riverbed of the Bogue Falaya, with its goats wandering around and cypress trees reaching high into the sky.
I've seen all that before, however. And I've had all the food, too. Most of it I find mediocre. But that wasn't the case in the early going, when the menu was more interesting. I get to talking with the waiter about this. Specifically, I tell him about the excellent soups du jour that The Chimes used to have. Now the soup du jour is little different from the regular soups. The manager comes over to hear me. I'm not sure whether anything will come of this. I am, after all, dressed in the NPAS men's chorus uniform: a tuxedo. That alone, in this very casual sports bar and eatery, must have made me look like a nutbar.
[caption id="attachment_28268" align="alignnone" width="480"]
The view from the deck at The Chimes.[/caption]
I have a dozen raw oysters. The oyster bar and grill has been the only consistently good part of the menu at The Chimes. (Although the brunch dishes come close.) The rest of it leaves me cold. But how can I think of such things after knocking my solo out of the park?
Well, I thought I did. And nobody said, "Keep your day job."
