The Seven, Vol. 1

NB: I can't always add up "7 Quick Takes" and I can't always blog on a Friday, but here is my first attempt at Jennifer Fulwiler-style mini-posting. EC 1. I am trying to figure out why “Not A Day Goes By,” from Stephen Sondheim’s Merrily We Roll Along, is printed in the key of F in my music theater anthology, but always sung in lower keys in actual performance (at least on YouTube). Here is Her Curliness Bernadette Peters doing it in D major. [video width="480" height="360" mp4="http://www.edencasteel.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Not-A-Day-Goes-By-by-Bernadette-Peters.mp4"][/video]

And here it is in the printed key, F major, which makes it sound . . .different: [video width="640" height="360" mp4="http://www.edencasteel.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/Not-A-Day-Goes-By-from-Merrily-We-Roll-Along.mp4"][/video]These kinds of mismatches happen all the time in the printing/performing world but this one is a headscratcher. I have consulted my colleagues at SomaticVoiceWork and they are also a little puzzled. One suggested that the song was switched at some point from a male to female character, and that would explain it.

2. I like it when women keep their fertility plans private. “2014 is the year of the baby,” announced Chelsea Clinton. Wow, I hope her ovaries wrote that down. It’s good to (quietly) prepare for pregnancy with vitamins and leafy greens, but what if the stick doesn’t turn blue when she has decided she wants it to? Conception is not an item on a to-do list, it’s the Major Life Event (and a blessing from God). I am happy when I hear someone is “hoping” for a baby, which is usually more accurate, anyway.

3. I’m reading David McCullough’s biography of President Truman, all 992 pages, and I am up to his second term in the Senate. I didn’t realize he was such a late bloomer -- he married Bess when they were both 35! He was just too poor to marry her sooner, and she waited for him.

4. My little girl loves to plan parties -- from decorations to food to activities. Her 9th birthday is in November, and one option is hosting a slumber party. Do you remember slumber parties? I remember many of them as slumber-optional and lots of fun. Both of my kids have not attended or hosted them, it’s just worked out that way with their friends. What do I need to do to prepare myself?

5. There is a lot of wonderful music in little Westerly RI these days! Salt Marsh Opera just performed Donizetti's Don Pasquale. It was a sweet, funny production with excellent performances all around.The surtitles failed in the middle of Act 3, just before the beautiful love duet, but in a way, it was such a treat -- we knew they were singing about love, and nothing else mattered. Go see it at The Kate if you can.

6. I'm really looking forward to seeing the awesome Kevin Short perform this Friday! Usually I only see him from my perch on the Chorus of Westerly risers (and that view ain't bad either, sister). This will be such a treat. And Chanticleer arrives later this month, too!

7. Yesterday, I played a funeral for a nice lady named Helen, married 52 years, who prayed the Rosary daily. The music was the usual mix [shoulder shrug]: Ave Maria, On Eagle’s Wings, One Bread One Body, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace. Helen, I’m honored that I got to play for your funeral, but I’m ecstatic that I didn’t mess up the pedals on your hymns and songs, and I fired all of the stops in the correct order (okay, they were presets, but that's a big leap for me!). I'm playing my first Catholic wedding next weekend, and playing your funeral helped boost my confidence. Your Communion hymn sounded soft and melodious, and your concluding hymn sounded triumphant. Helen, I hope I helped play you to Heaven.

My Happy Apps

I am selective about my smartphone apps: No to Angry Birds or Tetris, yes to Couch to 5K. No to Minecraft, yes to Vine. I only keep apps that I really like and use frequently. These apps make me happy!

Pandora reminds me of the summer I sold actual physical CDs and cassettes at Camelot Music. We sat around the break room digging through the large cardboard box filled with free promotional cassettes and CDs (okay, only I did that). I scored Madonna's Immaculate Collection, which was a big deal at the time.

I'm always justifying looking for apps for music education. My hardworking ClearTune app helps singers (including moi) figure out how to make the small changes that lead to more accurate pitch, and it's a godsend for nervous new sight singers and pianists ("Was that an E flat? It wasn't? I could have sworn it was. Are you sure?").

Being from the Dark Ages, I learned music theory the traditional way, with workbooks and flashcards. Writing out the scales is always a good idea, but apps are great for drills on note names, intervals, and chords. I like Musicopoulos for straight theory and straightforward practice. If you don't have a smartphone, Theta Music Trainer is a good place to practice.

My perfect pitch made ear training very easy for me, but I have begun to recommend these two solid apps for musical mortals: PlayByEar asks you to sing or play back chords and melodies accurately. EarTrainer shows intervals being played on a piano keyboard.

For sheer fun, the best ear training app is The Blob Chorus. Groups of blobs sing individual pitches, then a purple King Blob repeats one of the previous pitches. Match the blobs, and King Blob gets a crown. Get it wrong, your blob explodes! This is great for singers who are learning to hear their part inside a choir.

I have loved the public radio show Music From The Hearts Of Space since I was a teenage waitress at Elby's. The program aired on WCBE every Sunday night at 10pm as I drove home from the night shift, and I would keep listening as I changed out of my 100% polyester uniform and speed-read some Faulkner for the school week ahead. I use the show's app frequently and also listen to their online archive at www.hos.com

My senior high prom date turned me on to the SomaFM website years ago, as we exchanged one or two perfunctory emails to catch up and therefore avoid meeting up at reunions. He remembered my teenage love of Hearts of Space and recommended this. It was the last I heard of him but thanks, Dean, and I bet you have the app now too! SomaFM is a collection of 15 quirky, well-curated online stations (and that's the last time I will use "curate" in a post) ranging from NASA beeps and blips to bachelor pad jazz. I always wrap presents from Santa while listening to "Xmas in Frisko," their not-safe-for-children radio station.

I just downloaded the Inception app and . . woah. Wierd and wonderful to have music played according to your own movements! When I miss Michigan or DC, I listen to the local traffic report through my iHeart Radio app and then I'm glad I don't live there anymore. I also use a couple of lolofit apps, including the 7-minute workout and Jeff Galloway's Easy 10K. They always make me feel like an Olympian, no matter how infrequently l use them. I wish the 10K app had more variations in run-walk ratios. I don't see why I can't run for one minute and walk for ten, and still have Jeff tell me "great job!" in his Southern twang.

Even on the worst day, my Random Gratitude app asks me to think of something good and type it in. The best feature of this app is that it randomly scrolls through my previous posts, reminding me of so many wonderful little things that I might have otherwise forgotten.

So, what apps should I add to my collection?

The Last Five Years

My website design is almost five years old. That's got to be 10,000 in cyber years. Back in the fall of 2008, I had a dormant website (a gift from my dad) and a bubbling career. I wanted to highlight my singing and libretto writing, hoping to do more of both. Alex Linebrink gave me some gorgeous custom features that we now take for granted. ("Grunge Garden" design! A blog! Widgets! Media players!) I wanted a personalized "Eden's Garden Of Ideas" theme full of flowers and music and glamour shots of me. I hired an old college buddy to photograph me cavorting in a few private Toledo gardens. He was in town for his high school reunion and squeezed me in, no charge.

Alex is now CEO of his own company in Detroit, the career is still bubbling, and I married the photographer in 2010.

After five years, it's time for the website to get a little facelift. I've started the revamping process by looking at hundreds of templates. When I needed to quickly build  a site for the musical I do every summer, I chose WordPress' Bueno and it was quick and painless. I'd like my own site to be that easy to build and manage. Technology says it can be.

My decision-making style is . . . deliberate. Ask my "go ahead, pull the trigger" husband and you may get a different answer. I gather information, I ponder, I investigate. Then I go back and do it again. And again. Finally, when a deadline approaches, I make a decision. I knew four years ago that I wanted a tree in my front porch area. I was not studying the light or waiting to find the perfect specimen - I was investigating at garden stores, walking several local garden tours, and observing. I tore out other plants in the spot to make room for my tree, then left the ground bare for two years while I pondered some more and spent my tree money on things like house inspections. Then one day in April, I walked into the local garden store and made my choice. I'm very happy with it.

In the meantime, it will be a wonderfully active summer for Eden Enterprises. I'm gigging and playing organist du jour at a local church, I'm researching new scenes for the musical, I'm learning Sibelius 7 and preparing my children's cantata Francis Makes A Scene for a second performance. I'm developing a children's theater workshop, I'm writing songs for two Very Special Clients, I'm making new garden beds for the plants that seem to triple in size each summer, and I'm getting to see more of my family. As my dad says, "I'm too blessed to be stressed." I wish the same for you.

Until then. . . under construction.

The Alto's Lament

"I'm a soprano," she said to me after she did a pitch-perfect imitation of John Denver. Even though she could sing siren vocalises up to mid-soprano range, soprano was not her home on the range.

We all want to reach the unreachable stars. I want Linda Ronstadt's strong rock belt. Coloraturas want to be Billie Holiday. Baritones want to get the girl (but that's what tenors are for). Basses secretly want to be tenors too (oh come on, admit it). Altos want to sing the soaring descants -- but more than that, they want to sing melody. We can fake a different voice for a little while, but reality always sets in. As Joan Cusack said to Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, "I sing and dance around in my underwear sometimes, but that doesn't make me Madonna. Never will."

What is your natural voice? It is not too far away from your speaking range. It includes what you can sing first thing in the morning. It is not effortless, but it is not difficult, either. It's not the husky deep voice you have in allergy season, and it's not refined by cigarettes and beer. It changes as you age. If you can siren the note comfortably, you can probably sustain it for singing. It may be a sound you imitate from the radio, what you hear your family singing at home, or what you have been told by previous teachers or coaches. . . .or not.

I have taught high sopranos how to belt and have taught natural belters how to sing opera, but my job is to help each singer claim their natural voice. A voice teacher can help you discover your natural range (which is often bigger than you imagine), but it takes courage to accept limitations. It may mean saying goodbye to one dream and embracing another, which is what my brave John Denver soprano is doing right now.

Buoyed by her brief forays into the soprano range, she had signed up immediately for rehearsals, where her limited experience and the music's high tessitura strained her voice immediately. "But I'm so afraid of not being able to hold my part in anything except soprano," she admitted, blinking back tears.

"I must sing soprano because I can only hear and follow the melody line," she said. "I used to be able to harmonize as a kid, but I can't anymore. So, I have to sing soprano, even though it hurts and I can only hit half of the notes." As it turned out, her ability to harmonize was compromised by the same vocal technique issues which limited her range. Over time, she had unwittingly sung herself into a frustrating vocal straitjacket.

Her vocal identity was as fragile as a butterfly's wing. "We can still work on expanding your range to hit higher notes," I offered, "but maybe at the same time we can practice harmonizing." I began playing two note and three note chords, and she sang every note she heard -- accurately. She smiled. "I guess I still know how to find more than the melody," she said. The lesson that started in tears ended with laughter.

She howled with happy recognition at "The Alto's Lament," the knowing rant by Goldrich and Heisler. It comforted her to know that even professional altos get melody envy. Coloraturas turn green too . . .in fact, I wrote a song about it. 

Our job now is to work within her current wide range, which is about an octave below where she would like it to be. We vocalize where she is comfortable, and we balance her head and chest registers as much as possible. We sing softly to avoid strain. We look for repertoire that encourages a balanced technique. We practice harmonizing. We make progress.

She will never be Madonna. She'll never be John Denver, either. She'll be  ... herself, and that will be plenty good enough.

Rebel 1993-2013

Sunrise. I awaken, climb the stairs to the second floor, and sit. It is time. My barbaric yawp echoes down the hall, wakening everyone from a sound sleep at 5 am . . and then again at 5:24. .  . 5:35. . .  6:01 . . . where are they?

Feeder stumbles out of bed and open the door and greets me. "Where have you been? I'm famished," I say, blinking my light green eyes. If she gets back in bed, I jump up and politely bellow until she gets the drift. I follow her down the stairs, my padded white paws (she calls them my bunny feet and I allow this, for she is nice) lightly thudding as gravity helps bring me down.

I stare at her disapprovingly as she makes coffee before tending to my breakfast, but I allow her this privilege. The other three cats, Boo-Boo Napoleon, Lou-Lou and Cecilia, begin to circle and stare at her too. I am their spokescat. "Feed us all -- but feed me first," I say, benevolently. Hey, if they want to speak up, they can. But they always leave it to me.

We all descend to the basement and she tries not to trip over us. Sometimes she will carry me down so she has less to trip over. I like being carried around, always have. Don't judge.

There are three large litter pans lined up on the far wall. They are stinky but it's not my fault. I use cat pans on the main level of the house now, because I am 20 years old. Sometimes I just gotta go, and I don't have time to get to the basement. This is a perk of being the Senior Cat in Residence. The other humans fail to see this as a perk.

She pours dry food into the bowls and cracks open cans of wet food for me. I love chicken gravy dinners! I greedily lick the gravy from the wet food and then start in on the meat, while Boo Boo crunches his kibble, Lou Lou watches cautiously from a corner, and Cecilia waits for me to get done so it can be her turn. In the cat world there is no such thing as ladies first.

Wait! Where did Feeder go? She went upstairs to get her coffee. With cat-like tread (obviously) I climb the basement stairs (I am rather agile for my age, thanks to occasional steroids for my kidney disease). I know she has that other, special cat food up there.

She pours her coffee and turns around, and I am there, paws primly pressed together as I sit at attention. "More!" I bellow. I can't hear my own meows that well these days, so I am extra loud to make sure she knows what I'm talking about. Feeder scoops out some dehydrated, all-natural powdered food from Healthy Kitchen and mixes it with water. I love this grassy stuff. It is like munching on the lawn in early spring. I gobble my second course while she trudges upstairs with coffee for the other human. I like this food so much I was a model for the company.

I love Honest Kitchen dry cat food so much, I wrote a letter to the company. They sent me more food.

Ages: Feeder 23 years . . . and me, 8 months

Feeder found me at a shelter in Virginia in 1993, when I was 8 months old. I started meowing excitedly as she walked by my cage, looking for a furry companion. I could tell she had loved cats before, and knew what she was doing. We were instant friends.

Get me down! And STOP LAUGHING!

In the early days, I was rambunctious and played with cat toys, and climbed trees and caught birds. I only got stuck in a tree once, but it was memorable.

Now I'm the Methuselah of felines, and my pleasures are simple, yet wonderfully frequent. I love to sit with her while she is reading, and pretend to read along. I just like being warm and cuddled next to her. I can't be aloof around her, she is too loving for that. She opens her left arm and I circle around a few times, then collapse into that soft spot with a happy thrum of purring.

She is getting out of the shower. I am sitting at attention, paws primly joined, on the bathroom rug. This rug is a great extra litter box when I am on the third floor and desperate . . and even when I'm not. Hey, at least I didn't use the heating vent, like I did that one time. Kidney disease! My bad!

I like drinking water from the bathtub. Always have. I pretend I am Lion King, licking out of a jungle lagoon. Feeder opens the shower curtain and exits, and I jump in and sit for a moment, peering at her as she towels off. She knows what she has to do. She closes the drain, turns on the faucet for ten seconds, and then shuts it off. Instant lagoon! I drink greedily.

Noon. Fed and watered and relieved (in a proper receptacle), I head downstairs and saunter over to the matching club chairs in the living room. She has draped them with elegant shawls, which I have covered with orange and white fur from hours of happy sunbathing. I take one chair, and Boo-Boo takes the other. Boo-Boo is an obsequeious ninny who purrs at everything, even the Dumb Dog. I do not like the Dumb Dog. I do not like any dogs. But I don't mind Boo-Boo giving me a little extra warmth, I guess. This is where I will spend most of my day. Time to nap.

Cat nap.

Every time Feeder walks near the kitchen, I track her like she's a bird in flight. I jump down from my perch and see what she's going to make me for snack time. I love chicken, ham, milk, cream, cheese, and a little yogurt. I can't be bothered with tuna and salmon. I eat and head back to my cat spot for my next nap.

Afternoon. Sometimes, when the weather is nice and the breeze blows through the window, I like to sleep on her desk. But today it's cold and she is wearing black corduroy pants. What a perfect opportunity to sit on her lap! She never turns me down. I purr contentedly while she types.

Scholar cat

I like to help them all with their projects. I sat on her first husband while he wrote a book; he called me Scholar Cat. I sat on her as she typed her first libretto. I sit on her son as he does algebra. I watch the girl do her homework. When Feeder teaches voice lessons, I sit on the piano bench and help the students learn how to listen to the cat. It's the least I can do.

Evening. Feeder and I are watching Netflix. I am not a cineophile, but my favorite movie is Milo and Otis, about a cat and dog buddy team. When I was younger and more impressionable, I used to stare at the screen and think I was seeing myself. I watched with rapt attention.

Here is the part I don't like. For seventeen years, I slept on the bed at her feet, or curled up against her left arm, but now her husband carries me out of the bedroom. The Dumb Dog gets to stay, but I don't. When I first met the Dumb Dog and realized that I would have to share the house with him, I had a bit of an episode. I hissed at him, then took off for the basement, where I stayed for nearly three months. I would not come out from under the oil tank. Feeder brought me treats and gradually helped me recover my equilibrium. He is an irritant to me. I don't have to like him and I don't.

I descend the stairs to reclaim my spot on the living room chair.

Sometimes I sleep with the hairless cat who used to be smaller than me. I am a big part of his life too. In fact, his first word was 'cat', though it came out 'ta.' I wasn't sure about him sometimes, but now I think he's okay. The girl is okay, too and her bed is very soft.

I'm going to get a snack later, but I'm sleepy now. It's been a good day. I have kept Feeder company, the way I always do. I have partaken of Fancy Feast Chicken Appetizers. I have demoralized the Dumb Dog. I have inspected the house and laid a fresh layer of fur over every chair and carpet. I have eaten grass in the courtyard. In short, I have spent the day doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, and loving every second of it. The fireplace is roaring, the house is dark. Every pet is in their spot, including me, I guess. Good night until whenever I say it's morning. . . .I'm thinking, 5:31 am. Signing off.

. . . and then, on a cold Friday in February, we said goodbye. I am glad you were not sick for long. Oh, how I miss you, dear Rebel. Thank you for twenty wonderful years of friendship. 

Grief is the price we pay for love. You have left a cat-sized hole in my heart. XO Feeder 

Long legs and high notes

Handel's Care Selvehas several sustained A flats in the melody. Coloraturas like me just looooove those high notes, but D., my student, was having a tough time with them. As she reached for the high note, the sound would just disappear. She was frustrated. I knew it would be pedagogically unhelpful to issue orders such as "move your tongue out of the way, relax your lips and jaw, and let your larynx fall so your sound waves can efficiently exit your vocal tract."

Instead, we talked about long legs and shoes.

I am not Nicole Kidman, so I am always trying to make my legs look longer. D. sympathized. I love high waisted skirts and I avoid tunics. I still pine for the nude-toned high heel sandals (from Payless, no less), that made my legs look positively Amazonian for seven glorious years, before they stretched out and became unwearable. I adore D'Orsay style pumps, because when I show off a little more of my foot, voila! Legginess!

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The trick to instantly longer legs is to pay attention to what goes on your feet. Do that, and you'll see immediate improvement. The trick to singing high notes effortlessly is to recall what it feels like to sing low notes effortlessly. Do that, and the high notes will be easy, easy, easy. Follow?

D. realized that she was so focused on aiming for the high notes, she had tensed and constricted the very muscles that need to relax and soften. . . in order to sing the high notes!

When she spent a few moments recalling the physical sensation of singing lower pitches, her face and larynx relaxed (she watched it happen in the mirror) . . and the A flats popped out, effortlessly and beautifully. To aim high, think low.

And now . . . . I wonder what's new at Zappos? . . . .

Love . . . . and Roses (slightly delayed)

Note from Eden: YOU'RE STILL INVITED! Due to the snow, we've rescheduled our concert for FRIDAY FEB. 22 at 7pm. Same songs, same place, same time of evening, same free admission. Hope to see you there! You're invited to an evening of love songs, and nothing but love songs!

Friday, Feb. 8 at 7pm, at Calvary Church in Stonington CT. The beautiful and talented Jennifer Christina Holden will be at the piano . . . we have been rehearsing diligently, as you can see.

The program is all about the love, people. From the exuberant "Juliette's Waltz" from Gounod's Romeo Et Juliette, to Obradors' sensual "Del Cabello Mas Sutil" . . . from the tragic "La Maja Dolorosa" triptcych by Granados, to the soaring emotion of "Si Mes Vers Avaient Des Ailes" by Hahn. Many songs actually have "love" in the title -- no subtlety for us! We've included two bodice-ripping Benjamin Godard songs: "Amour! Amour!" and "Amour Fatal." It's like Fifty Shades of Grey, set to music. (Not that we've read it, mind you. What kind of girls do you think we are? If we did read it, it was strictly for research.) But it's in French so you can still bring your kids.

We'll wind up with some funny valentines from the English repertoire: "Love's Philosophy" by Quilter, "Amor" by William Bolcom, and . . . a bonbon or two. All's fair in love recitals.

Admission is free . . .bring a date!

Resolutions

Goals for 2013 I want to learn how to prepare a few more healthy foods. I always think it's going to take too long to make the good stuff, and I'm always surprised at how easy it is. I want to figure out how to make those Thai wrap up roll thingys with julienned carrots and peanut sauce. I always worry I'm going to rip the wrapper and wind up with salad all over the place.

I'd like to add some kind of decor to the white IKEA shelves in my office -- cheaply. I could paint the backs of the cases some hip color. What would Martha do?

Despite my continual reading of Color Me Beautiful in the 1980s, every once in a while I buy an item of clothing in brown. I tell myself that it's an alternative to ubiquitous black. I have loved ones who look great in brown, so I guess I figure that love will make me look good in brown. And so I put it on at home, and I look terrible and pale and sick in it, and I take it off and put it in the donations box. And I always recall this poem. It's time to say goodbye to brown clothing -- forever. Khaki, you're next.

Memorize as much of my Feb. 8 recital as possible. I'm working on this now and it's going pretty well. It really is harder to memorize when you're older!

I love teaching, and I love breaks from teaching just as much. Keep doing this.

Pray more and more and more . . . because prayer works.

Run a half marathon. Run a 10K. Run a 5K. Run. Or just tone up. Or just look like I've lost 10 pounds.

I'm writing a short children's musical about Saint Francis using music from his era. If I include every wonderful thing he ever did, it will be longer than The Ring Cycle. I have to turn in a draft by Ash Wednesday (Feb. 13), and a final by Easter (March 31). I have done a lot of research and collecting, but no writing.

I'm also writing "Quonnie: The Musical 3.0", but I won't even start that until June. That's an eternity away. Right? By then I'll have lost 10 pounds and run a half marathon.

I'd like to procrastinate a little less than my kids.

Restrict Facebook and other cyber time wasters. I turn to social media when I am bored or restless, when I should really be doing something else -- anything else. I use the Self-Control app to force myself to take a break. Occasionally I'll keep electronics off for a period of time. I'm always happier when I do, even if it's only half a day. It gets easier to do the more I do it. So, I'm going to do that more.

Say a long goodbye to my 20 year old cat Rebel, and have him make a peaceful trip over the Rainbow Bridge. He's holding his own now but I know it's coming. I cherish every cuddle.

Paint some landscapes. I aspire to be Winston Churchill. Paint some walls, too. And the garage doors.

Travel more. Last year I enjoyed short trips to New Orleans and Montreal. This year: Colorado? Key West? Graceland? India?

Plant ALL the flower bulbs before the frost. Even the ones you forgot in the garage.

Figure out that contact lens prescription once and for all, and write it down so I can find the right contact for the right eye. I think I keep mixing them up.

Plant a smaller vegetable garden, to make room for more flowers and trees.

Continue to celebrate the end of orthodontia payments, car payments, and house payments (ALMOST!). That process may take a year. I can live with that.

Be at peace.

Good singers act

Exhibit A: Ellen Greene performing "Somewhere That's Green" from Little Shop of Horrors. I cringe as I listen to her, but I can't stop watching. She is heartbreaking to behold. Every note, gesture and expression delineate the character she's playing. She is Acting The Song. Exhibit B: This lovely young lady is singing "Somewhere That's Green," at her school talent show. She's blessed with a healthy voice that's pleasant to hear. She's dressed in a charming outfit just right for her age, and she's performing with poise and grace. She is singing, but she is not Acting The Song-- Thank God she's not!

Isn't singing a song more important than acting it? Good singing is the fruit of good acting. Good acting demands that a performer understand the history of a song and a show, its characters, plot, and lyrics. Good acting communicates physical and vocal cues that reveal and underline a character's thoughts and emotions - her voice. Good acting heightens high notes, deepens sighs, lengthens fermatas and expands rests. Good acting also makes vocal performances more believable, as singers discover aspects of themselves in the character. (Can a pubescent middle school Gleek successfully mine the emotional core of a downtrodden, centerfold-shaped floral shop worker who's being abused by her sadistic dentist boyfriend? Lord, I hope not.)

And yet, good acting is something that we barely have time to cover in voice lesson and rehearsal. We have to focus on good technique, learning the notes, blocking the scenes, and following the spots. So, when you have a chance to delve into Acting the Song outside of recital or callbacks, you should take it. . .

Which leads me to my shameless plug: On October 27, I'm teaching a one-day course on Acting The Song at Courthouse Center For The Arts in West Kingston!

I taught a one-week version of this course at CCA last summer, including some wonderful resources from Tracey Moore. There were exercises, improvisations, character questionnaires, research assignments, free writing and coaching. Some students learned new music, some worked on their standard repertoire. Everyone improved concentration and focus, and their understanding of character, and yes - they just sounded better. The final performances were impressive. As soon as it was over we all knew we wanted to do it again! Contact the Courthouse now to reserve your spot: 401-782-1018 or kelly@courthousearts.org

In mid November I'll be back at CCA, teaching a two-day "Broadway History For Non-Dummies" course. . . but that's another post!

Positively Perfect Pitch

It's true. I have perfect pitch. I can look at a piece of music and hear it playing in my head, in the correct key. In rehearsal you don't have to play pitches for me, because I already know where to begin. If you play a B flat on the piano, I can tell you it's B flat without peeking. If a siren is wailing I can tell you what pitch it's on.  If we're listening to music, you can ask me what key they're playing in and  I will tell you and I will be right. You can test your pitch ability, too. (I just tried it. 12/12. I've still got it.)

Perfect Pitch. Still a dork.

We don't know for certain what causes perfect pitch, but it may have something to do with the area of the brain that processes language -- somehow my language and my listening may have been tied very close together, so I was able to label sounds with ease. There is also probably a genetic factor -- I come from a musical family. We're not the Bachs, but we are musical. I was sitting at the piano, playing melodies by ear, at age 4. (My teenage son has always had excellent pitch accuracy. He always sings a melody in the correct key, even when he has not been given a starting pitch. But, he can't accurately name pitches out of the blue. I wonder if that skill will improve as he gets older.)

When I was little, I thought that perfect (or absolute) pitch developed from taking piano lessons, which I started at age 5. My voice teacher, Prof. Paul Hickfang, was the first to "diagnose" me, when I was 13. We met for lessons on Saturday mornings, in the choir room of his church in Linworth, Ohio. He sat at the upright piano and I stood on the opposite side. I was learning "O Mio Babbino Caro" and we had stopped to go over a phrase. He played a piano key to indicate where I should continue singing, and I asked, "You mean on the A-flat?" He stopped and looked at me. "How did you know that was an A-flat?" I said, "It just is. Doesn't everyone know that?" He smiled slowly. "No, Eden, everyone doesn't know that. But my wife does." His wife Laura Lee also has perfect pitch. He played a few random notes all over the keyboard, and I named each one instantly.

It's been very helpful in choral situations. I can provide pitches for all parts faster than you can extract your pitch pipe from your pants pocket. I can labor mightily to keep my section from going flat, by my sheer pitch-itude. I can quietly help singers find their way out of the tough spots. But sometimes they're so flat, I just have to go with 'em. (I was a pitch bitch in my earlier years, bemoaning the effort of staying in tune as the rest of the section sagged. I hope I'm nicer now.)

Absolute pitch can sometimes be a bit aggravating. Transposing on sight is difficult for me, because I "hear" the music in one key while I'm trying to sing it in another. If I have the chance, I'll write in the letter names to make sure I don't start singing the "wrong" pitches. (My freshman roomie completed music theory homework while listening to jazz on the CD player, which astonished me; I had to have silence so I could accurately "hear" the music I was reading.) Once I know a piece, it's easier to transpose.

In high school music theory class, we had a test on melodic dictation -- it's like a spelling test for musicians. We were expected to listen to a melodic line and correctly write the music on staff paper. To be helpful, Dr. Keller told us the first note was a C. He played a cassette tape with several melodic examples, that were all supposed to start on C. But . . the cassette player's batteries were almost dead, so the tape was playing slow, and the first pitch was not a C, it was a B-flat. I knew it was a B-flat. I looked up, bewildered. How was I supposed to write what I was hearing when I knew I was hearing something different than what everyone else was hearing? I looked around the room. All the heads were bowed over the papers, but John Justice was looking up, too, and shaking his head. We nodded knowingly, then just shrugged and tried to figure out how to write what was expected, instead of what we were hearing. Perfect pitch pals.

Perfect pitch affects the way I teach music theory. I understand why scales are taught as a series of half and whole steps, and I understand why Guido d'Arezzo developed solfege, but I don't need either system to secure a pitch. I know they help everyone else more than they help me, so I use them and teach them. I can quickly identify intervals. I just know when a minor 7th is a minor 7th, but I have had to search for ways to explain this to a group of kids with regular ears.

Sometimes I think it would be fun to have "absolute car repair" or "absolute ultramarathon stamina" as a God-given gift. But I have perfect pitch, as did Mozart, Hendrix, Beethoven, Nat King Cole, and Chopin. Stevie Wonder has it too -- so that's how he finds his way around the keyboard!

Apparently some "absolutists" are so perfect, they can hear pitch in cycles per second. I can't do that, and I'm glad. I think that would be torture, to hear 20 violinists at 20 slightly different pitches.

By the way, Unforgettable is in F major. Watch the first 20 seconds of the clip, and you can tell that Cole just knows it.

. . . and they lived happily ever after

They met at age 13, at Indianola Junior High. They are only 2 weeks apart in age. She sat in front of him during homeroom. It wasn't love at first sight, but their oldest friends and family cannot recall a time when Ron and Rise weren't "Ron and Rise." (that's "ree-sa". It's Norwegian. But she's not Norwegian, she's Scottish with opera-loving parents.) To make money for college at Ohio State, he played piano in bars on Saturday nights and played organ on Sunday mornings. She worked as a secretary and became an elementary art teacher. They married on Sept. 2, 1962, at age 20, back when kids did that kind of thing. Most of their friends got married young, too.

After college and a stint at Ohio Bell, he joined the Navy, and she followed him around the world. They had me when they were 27, and my sister almost six years later. They built businesses. Some grew, some withered. They lavished love and care on their families, as their families did for them. They consoled and supported each other through the loss of precious babies, beloved parents, close relatives and friends. They celebrated success in business, and took delight in the happiness of their children and grandchildren. They were side by side at school, at home, at church, and at work.

It's different now. They no longer live in their dream home. No hospital wing will be named in their honor. My dad works a lot. My mother deals with a lot of health issues. I live too far away. We don't see each other enough.

But they still have faith, in God and in each other. They are still each others' best friend. They still have wicked senses of humor. They are proof of the enduring power of love. That is the precious, priceless gift of a Golden Anniversary. I don't know if I will ever see mine, but I am proud beyond measure to honor theirs.

This weekend Ron and Rise are celebrating quietly in Canada, where they celebrated their Silver Anniversary with their daughters, just yesterday.

Liana and I are so blessed to call them Mom and Dad. Happy Anniversary.

Love, Bink and Pon

Write on

I'm back in writing/directing mode after two months of teaching the world to sing. My children's history show, Quonnie: The Musical 2012, opens in less than two weeks! Once again I've written the script and lyrics myself, borrowing melodies from many different musical eras. I like writing lyrics and sometimes I'm really pleased, which makes up for the other times. "The Last Time I Saw Paris" was written by Oscar Hammerstein II and affectionately recalled the City of Light before the Nazi occupation. I used it in Quonnie: The Musical to provide a sentimental look at life in my neck of the woods back in September 1938, when Quonochontaug, RI (and the rest of New England) was devastated by a hurricane.

This year I have a couple of sweet elementary-age girls crooning the lyrics, which describe Quonnie before and after the storm: "The last time I saw Quonnie/the berries tasted sweet/the blush was on the roses red, we complained about the heat." The line I am proudest of incorporates a well known phrase: "The houses floated out to sea, the shoreline narrowed thin/our gardens drowned in ocean salt, a world gone with the wind." I meant it to refer to the song, which came out in 1937, but it could easily bring to mind the movie, which debuted in 1939. (And really, is there any better opening title sequence than this? ;)) To me it's a perfect visual image of how the hurricane affected this area.

I'm also proud of a lyric I dreamed up on the fly, Saturday night around 6pm. I was preparing to sing  "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better" from Irving Berlin's Annie Get Your Gun. The original lyrics describe Annie's rivalry with Frank Butler, but my duet partner was Ben Hutto, the esteemed director of choirs at the National Cathedral School and St. Alban's School in Washington, DC. So, I started rewriting some lyrics to reflect our roles as music director and vocal coach at the Royal School of Church Music's Newport course. I scribbled out lines and showed them to Ben for approval. Some were clunkers, but some were good: "I sing music that'r make a window shatter," "I can stick my tongue out and sometimes stick my lung out." My very favorite will only be understandable to church musicians, but they'll howl: "I can Phos Hilaron with my underwear on." He delivered it perfectly and brought down the house.

Okay, then. YOU try to rhyme Phos Hilaron, wise guy.

Teachypants

Deep Thoughts on the Summer Music Theater Camp Teaching Experience, written in Bossypants-ese. 10. Enrollment Axiom 1: If your summer theater camp has only two enrollees, both will be low-energy, gluten-sensitive tweens whose parents confused emo with interest in acting. The class will meet for six hours a day, five times a week, for a solid month. You will have to abandon your groundbreaking production of Oh, Calcutta! Jr. and endure their silent scorn as you desperately try to find something they can present at the camp showcase. With proper medication and diet, these kids can become excellent lighting designers.

9.  Enrollment Axiom 2: If you are blessed with enthusiastic, energetic actors who are eager to learn and experiment, the head count will be 56. One of the five days of camp will be a national holiday so you will be expected to cram five days of rehearsal into four. Five years from now, one of these campers will win the Tony Award for Lead Actress in Musical Theater, having never forgiven you for relegating her to the chorus this summer.

8. Whatever you encourage hesitant students to do in rehearsal will be executed at Mach Level 3 in performance.  "Move around the stage a little" will look like a human pinball. "Act sadder" will look suicidal. "Go ahead, be flirtatious" will look like Courtney Stodden.

courtney-stodden-1

7. Success stories are always inspiring. Invite professional actors to perform for your future Nellie Forbushes, and watch their little jaws drop when they see the pros go at it. It's even more fun because you can actually sightread the material the pros bring to show off their chops, which makes you feel like a bit of a pro yourself. (No snark here, that is really fun. And wow, Marvin Hamlisch still sounds good in 2012.)

6. Each day you shall hear at least two of the following: "I'm more of an actor-dancer" . . . "I'm a really low alto in school" . . . . "Can't you just transpose it down? That's what my choir teacher always does" . . . . "These pages of the song don't fit my voice, so I just leave them out" . . . "I just can't remember all the words to the song you gave me last week and the concert is in an hour, so my parents just said I should do Meadowlark again, you have the music around here, right?" Try to figure out a way to extract money from students for each utterance.

5. You will teach this lesson continually: Unless you are rendered unconscious by your own greatness, the performance isn't over when you stop singing. No, Oliver Twist, you will not lower your arms and shrug two seconds before the final chord of "Who Will Buy?" and ruin all the good work you did in the previous two minutes. We will practice it nine times until you hold those arms up for the duration of the final chords of music. The performance ends when I say it ends, mister. And it starts when you are walking onto the stage, so we're going to rehearse that too, until you stop shuffling and start walking. (Half of the campers will be so excited that they will forget to bow at all, but a few will do it perfectly and make me glad I took the time.)

4. Stop looking at me like you're drowning. I told you this performance would be memorized and you didn't believe me.

3. Just look at me if you forget the words. I will help you. You'll be okay.

2. If you are not the parent or relative of a camper, do not view any videos of summer theater camp performances. No matter how successful the showcase, if you watch it on video, you will deflate. Cherish the hazy memory. It actually went well.

1. Honor tradition. After the show is over and the kids are gone, treat yourself to mint chocolate chip ice cream. This dates back to your childhood, when your dad took you and your little sister to McDonald's for a Shamrock Shake after each piano recital, which was usually held on a cold gray Sunday afternoon in March. You didn't perform today, but you did work your butt off and it's time to celebrate. The iciness also helps to reduce the inflammation in your throat from weeks of shouting over preteens. If there is no ice cream, alcohol is an acceptable substitute. Long live theater!

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Writing with gas

For my summer vacation, I'm writing "Quonnie: The Musical 2012," teaching voice and acting classes at three different summer camps, prepping new classes for the fall in three different locations, and communing with my fellow Somatic VoiceWork voice teachers in hot, humid Virginia. I'm trying to brush the mats out of my 19 year old cat's fur. I'm ordering books for my high school freshman son. I'm cheering my daughter as she practices ice hockey. I'm also doing some weeding in the garden, growing pumpkins and radishes (I ate my own radishes yesterday!), doing some weeding, trying to grow sweet potatoes, and doing some weeding.

I haven't written much since I completed the first "Quonnie" script a year ago. I was looking forward to researching the history of my area again, and actually yes, that part is fun. But the scriptwriting has been difficult. I told myself the only way to improve on last year's show was to write my own music, in addition my own lyrics. I forgot that Elton John had Bernie Taupin, Lennon had McCartney, and even the Captain had Tennille. I was alone and adrift.

Seeing my distress, my husband asked, "Why are you trying to write a first draft perfectly?" He had described my thought process exactly. I gave up trying to control what came into my head, and as soon as I did, ideas and lyrics pushed their way into my brain and onto the page. I may still have time to write the music, but if not, there's always next year.

In the rear view mirror, all writing is easy. I wrote Bride and Flatulence three years ago and finally got a performance of it up on YouTube. I had read Austen's books, and wondered about the private lives of all the genteel men in her literary universe. I wondered what they were like when the women were off catching butterflies and planning balls. Then I stumbled onMr. Darcy Takes A Wife, an R-rated fan fiction sequel to Pride and Prejudice. The Darcys' "compleat delight" in each other, energetically expressed in several locations in and around Pemberley, resulted in the production of an heir, plus a few more progeny. Instead of exploring their most intimate pleasures, I imagined Darcy and Elizabeth's most intimate . . . embarrassments.

Mr. Darby and Miss Bennett in "Bride And Flatulence," 2010. Click on the photo to watch the whole play.

Looking at the video, I think it turned out well. I look at the video and recall happy rehearsals and sentimental thoughts. But, digging a little deeper into my memory, I also remember writing feverishly through the night before the play's due date. I emailed updated versions of scenes into the wee hours, until my future husband finally said, "Good night, and send me the rest at 6am!" I remember the first reading was at 9am and even the adrenaline could barely keep me awake. I was out of . . . gas?

Writing is like childbirth -- you forget the pain, but if you think long enough, you'll remember it. (And still be glad you did it.) And, there's no way to do it perfectly -- just get on with it, take all the help you can get, and hope for a happy ending. It usually works out.

And now, back to writing . . or teaching . . or weeding.

Romance, Romance, Romance

I'll be performing works by Schubert, Schumann and Strauss on Saturday, June 9 at 7pm, at the Westerly Public Library in Westerly, RI. Jennifer Christina Holden, piano and Lyle Hill, euphonium, are also on the bill! We're all performing Romantic favorites.

I'm so excited to share some of my favorite art songs in this lovely, recently renovated space. I just finished singing some lovely Brahms, so it was easy to stay in a Romantic German mood. Jennifer, Lyle and I have agreed to share some thoughts about each work before we perform it. . . we're in a library, after all!

Admission is free.

No, I have no idea what I'm wearing yet. Maybe something Romantic and German.

Their works do follow them

  I'm singing Brahms Requiem for the first time, with a director who is leading it for the last time.

George Kent has been the heart and soul of The Chorus of Westerly for 53 years. It is deeply moving to watch a legend as he prepares to leave behind what he's built. Mrs. Lynn Kent is part of the soprano section and she started Camp Ogontz, the Chorus' bucolic summer home. We've hugged her and cried with her all year, because we're going to be saying goodbye to her, too. At the final rehearsal, Mr. Kent was not thinking legacy; he was focused on getting the sopranos to match pitch with the strings. "We don't come here for two hours on Thursday nights so the sopranos can sing flat!" (He said that with great exasperation on May 3; I know because I wrote it down. I often write down directors' bons mots in my scores; they're fun to recall and sometimes they make more sense to me than writing fortissimo or diminuendo.)

The Brahms is Mr. Kent's favorite work, and it's quickly becoming my favorite as well. It's such a personal, intimate choral work, yet it's unbelievably majestic and grand. It is about souls experiencing great suffering and receiving blessed consolation. "Remember, this is not really a Requiem. It's an . . . ALIVE!" he said. "Just keep on concentrating, that's really what we have to do here."

After three hours of rehearsal, the chorus was exhausted. But Mr. Kent seemed to grow stronger with each hour, becoming more and more animated in his conducting and expression. He could see we were weary, so he talked to us for a bit. "The crux of it all is right here," he said, pointing to the words of the seventh and final movement, taken from Revelation: And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them.

"Their works do follow them," said Mr. Kent, quietly but insistently. Suddenly understanding what was in front of us, the Chorus suddenly recharged, and then we were off, singing with expression and emotion. Mr. Kent scrunched up his bearded face in determination and delight.

Thank you, George and Lynn Kent, and Godspeed. Your works do follow you.

Bad breath(ing)

One of my students brought the Colbie Caillat song Realize to a recent lesson. She kept running out of breath before the ends of phrases, and that wasn't really like her.  

We listened to the mp3 together. Amazing! There is only ONE place to breathe in the chorus: If you just realize what I just realized/ then we'd be perfect for each other/ and will never find another/if you just realize what I just realized // (BREATHE!)// We'd never have to wonder if/we missed out on each other now

I wondered how Miss C would ever be able to manage this feat in live performance. So, my student and I checked out  Realize live, and we realized (ha!) that even Colbie herself couldn't sing the long phrases in one breath! One of her bandmates harmonizes the melody on the choruses and sings a little longer than she does, so Colbie can get a breath. If he didn't harmonize, there would be a little gap in the song and in the "rushed" mood.

Girlfriend wrote the song by herself, presumably for herself (along with Jason Reeves and Mikal Blue)! I think she was trying to make the chorus sound like a rush of words, the kind that come with the

realizationthatyoulovesomeoneandyouwantotellthemnow.

Okay, you're the artist, it's your call. The miracle of music track editing can cover up the fact you have no place to breathe in your own song. No one else can sing the song quite like Colbie . . .even she can't really sing it.

Taylor Swift likes to breathe in unexpected places, and seems to avoid breathing in the logical ones. (And Caillat has written songs for Swift; what a perfect pair of blue-lipped maidens!) Listen to her sing the chorus of Love Story: "You'll be the prince (BREATHE!) and (BREATHE!) I'll (BREATHE!) be the princess." She sounds like a four year old running up three flights of stairs to tell her friend how to play Make Believe Castle. But the ending will leave you . . . . . .uh . . . . . .breathless: RomeosavemeI'vebennfeelingsoaloneIkeep (BREATHE)

waitingforyoubutyounevercomeisthis (BREATHE!)

inmyheadIdon't know (BREATHE!)

whattothinkhekneelstothegroundandpullsoutaringandsaidmarrymeJulietyou'llneverhavetobealoneIloveyouandthat'sallIreallyknowItalkedto yourdadgopickoutawhitedressit'salovestorybabyjustsayyes.

The girl's in love! Oxygen! STAT!

Alanis Morrissette paved the way for the Bad Girl Breathers with lyrics that have been called "a mangled web of garbled syntax, overheated metaphors, and mystifying verbal contortions." She doesn't engage in the kind of melodic rushing that Caillat and Swift (and Sara Bareilles) do. Instead, she messes with beats and so-so rhymes and emPHASis. Like a Pied Piper of Lyrical Grammar, Alanis has led many astray; I still like her. My favorite song of hers is "Uninvited", from the City of Angels soundtrack. She knows when and how to breathe, even if she's not so careful about pronounCIation: Like anyone WOULD be/ I am flatTERED by your FAScination WITH me. . . .you're uninVIted, an unforTUNate slight."

So if you want to sing one of these one-breath-per-stanza songs, what do you do? 1. Slow it down, so the time between rhymes and words is slow enough for you to take some quick breaths. 2. Sing it with a group of singers, so you can all stagger your breaths. 3. Feign a dramatic emotional breakdown if you have to breathe and miss a few words. If all that fails . . . .  4. Sing something else.

Fix a flat

Many years ago I acquired an old  St. Gregory Hymnal. On the back inside cover, there's a note in a woman's handwriting. It says, "Herb, you don't open your mouth enuf! Consequently, you are flat." She wrote "flat" using the musical symbol shaped like a lower case b. I thought it was a perfect little comment. I imagined this soprano (how could she be anything else?), frustrated by his fumbling the "Gloria" again, finally snapped and fired off a note to poor Herb while Father intoned the Gospel. She couldn't take it anymore, but she was respectful of Herb's feelings. The "enuf" was her way of softening the blow.

What can you do when member of your singing group is so off key -- or sings with such tension -- that he or she destroys the blend you've worked so hard to create? I have never seen an ensemble director or group member accuse an individual singer of "sticking out," but I've heard sad stories from grown ups whose music teachers ordered them to lip sync, rather than sing. The hurt lingers. When these folks are brave enough to take voice lessons later in life, it's therapy as much as it is training.

Can anything be done to help the "stick out" singer, without hurting feelings? I've observed the following remedies and results.

1. Ignore it. It will go away. This works about once a year, and never while performing. If an obvious problem is continually ignored by a director or fellow members, listeners will question your hearing and/or your sanity. "Good grief, can't she hear how BAD that sounds?"

2. Call out the entire section. "Tenors, we are screeching on that note like cats in heat!" Sometimes the off-pitch singers get the hint and make the fix, while the rest of the section wonders what they did wrong. There are two pitfalls here: A. Well-meaning singers, singing correctly, may overcompensate and become new problems to ignore (see no. 1). B. Well-meaning singers, singing correctly, will deduce that you're not accusing them of pitch problems. They will tune out your criticism altogether, even when they really deserve it. This reduces a director to the musical equivalent of Chicken Little.

3. Change the key of the song. This can alleviate a problem in the short term, but it drives perfect-pitchers like me insane. I have been forced to transpose on sight because a couple of singers needed a lower pitch. Their problem was gone, but mine was just beginning, and I resented it.

The best way to respectfully address vocal faults is by assessing and improving vocal function. Improving the function often alleviates the problems.

Be dispassionate when someone keeps hitting a clunker. Simply note what is happening, and ask for information. "We're under the pitch at measure 17. Mackenzie and Malcolm, what do you feel happening when you sing that note? What happens in your throat before you sing that note? Singers, what can we do when our throats feel tighter on these kinds of pitches? Okay, good answers. Let's have Mackenzie and Malcolm demonstrate those last two suggestions, and then we'll all try it together."

Mackenzie was never directly accused of not hitting the note, she was simply asked to report what was happening before and during her singing. A few singers demonstrated the correct practice, and then everyone tried together. It's also fun to have everyone actually sing a melody "the wrong way" and then switch to "the right way." It's like a mini-master class, and it's quick. I know it's not always possible to do this, but when there's time and the courage to try, the results are amazing.

Yes, addressing vocal faults uses precious rehearsal time, but fixing them benefits the whole group. In the end, it saves time and results in healthier singers and better performances. Do it before you've had "enuf."

3.

Somewhere out there

My son, the world's No. 1 Rush fan, recently became a blogger. Reactions to his blog were mixed. (You can do a quick search for it at the Good Man Project's Good Feed Blog.) The feedback from his peers -- whose tastes run more to hip-hop -- was mostly negative, but that was no surprise. Readers old enough to know all the lyrics to Tom Sawyer were supportive and enthusiastic. I wish he had more support from friends in his area, but I know he will find camaraderie eventually.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree. Last year I started "Chants Occurrence," a Meetup group that I hoped would help me link up with people who liked Gregorian chant and early sacred music. It was a way for me to handle the sudden musical isolation I felt after my big move to the East in 2010. I was hoping to start a mini-schola, and maybe even bring that group to a church occasionally, because I think St. Augustine was right. But, we all live too far away from each other for that to happen anytime soon. I've had the pleasure of meeting a few of the 11 members of the group at concerts, and I'll see a couple of them at a Vespers I'm singing this weekend in Connecticut. I still hope we'll get to chant together sometime, but I feel better just knowing they're out there.

Finding my tribe has not happened the way I thought it would, but isn't that God's favorite way of answering prayer? A few weeks ago, recoiling from negative news stories, I found I had an urgent desire to save a life. I prayed to save just one life. Less than 24 hours later, I had an unexpected extra hour in my teaching schedule and out the window, I saw a red-letter opportunity. I walked into a building near my teaching studio, and gave a pint of blood.

I feel better just knowing it's out there. ;)

Music for Funerals

When I lived in Michigan, I had an informal agreement with the organist at my parish, regarding music for our own funerals: One of us would make sure that the other got really good music. We worried that our relatives, prostrate with grief, might program some lousy music. We even made a little list for each other. We did a lot of funerals together, and sometimes we would whisper, "I want THAT hymn!" or, more often, "Please make sure that song is BANNED at my funeral, ok?" On Eagles' Wings did not make the cut. And now I have stated it here on my blog, too. Take note, family! I love the Faure Pie Jesu for funerals. It's short and beautiful. But, I think for my own funeral I would rather not have a soprano soloist. I'd like to be the Star Female one last time. So . . how about The Call, by Ralph Vaughan Williams? I love choral music, too.  . . the In Paradisum from the Faure or Durufle Requiem would be lovely, but I'm practical. I know there won't be a lot of time to rehearse anything. Do the chant version of the In Paradisum and I'll be happily on my way. Do Be Not Afraid and I'll haunt you. I'm tickled at the thought of having a New Orleans Second Line, but that's hard to come by up here!

The last time I sang the Pie Jesu for a funeral, it was for a baby girl who died in her mother's womb a couple of days before she was supposed to be delivered. I had just formed a small children's choir at my parish, which included some of the girl's older siblings. The parents asked if the children would sing, and they sang God Who Touchest Earth With Beauty. It was heartbreaking, and yet also hopeful. I could feel the sadness in my own voice as I sang, but I held it together. At the request of the parents we also sang Ye Watchers And Ye Holy Ones, a great hymn looking forward to happiness with the Communion of Saints.

My dad played the organ at both of his parents' funerals, and he accompanied me as I sang Albert Hay Malotte's The Lord's Prayer. I know it brought him comfort to be able to play. He also delivered the eulogies. My mother sang at her own mother's funeral. I don't think I will be able to do anything but hold my sister's hand at that time, but we'll see. When your heart is broken, sometimes music is the only way you can bear it. If I have to sing, I'll sing.

This week my True Love and I attended a funeral at the same parish where we were married. It was a service of thanksgiving for the life of Laurie, a woman I had never met. The church was packed. The choir sang Herbert Howells' Pray For the Peace Of Jerusalem. At Communion the choir sang several short motets, including one of my favorites by Theodore DuBois, Adoramus Te Christe. (It's on my list. It's quick to learn, too.) We used to sing it at the Altar of Repose on Holy Thursday.

The final hymn was For All The Saints, and we sang all eight verses. I noticed that as I sang each verse, my voice was stronger and stronger, and I was happy to help sing this beloved woman to Heaven. The organist played a dazzling fanfare, and we began the final verse. The choir soared past all of us, with the descant reaching higher and higher. The music in the hymnal got blurry as tears came to my eyes, and I choked up so much I could no longer sing, just listen and be thankful.

The entire congregation stood as the grieving mother and children processed to the back of the church with the casket, while the organist played a triumphant postlude. A few people left the pews, but most just stood and watched. The choir was invited to recess but they remained standing in the loft, motionless. The organist kept his eyes on the music and completed the postlude, and everyone remained standing, weeping silently for the gift of the beautiful woman and the gift of the beautiful music.

Laurie was the organist's daughter. He played her to Heaven.

Laura Kent Hynes 1962-2012