They were sweating in the August morning heat, faces shining with the effort to stay on tune and in tempo. Tenors perhaps a bit weak, but three or four basses making good. So even if they didn’t sound professional, Merrill believed they were ready. The Requiem called for the sweetness of newborn innocence, followed by an awakening to all the evil in the world, and ending with a triumph over that evil. It was really happening, she was sure that this time the devil had been summarily routed.
She had held a series of auditions which had yielded a couple of sopranos pure enough to belt out et lux perpetua, and a set of altos who typically declined to sing tenor. The real tenors were always straining to reveal their inner Pavrotti.
A trained voice came from a busty 30-ish blond woman, who was sporting tight denim and a blinding collection of crystals and sequins. She contradicted Merrill's expectations by singing a surprisingly accomplished Medieval French song; but she then asked, “will we be doing any new music?” by which Merrill supposed she meant Adams or Reich or something along those lines, so she just said, “Mozart Requiem. Can you come back on Friday, please?” which fortunately she did: she came back in another distracting ensemble, but sang like an angel and so was quickly assimilated.
They wouldn’t be having the Vienna Philharmonic with them, either. There would be only 2 rehearsals with the local professional musicians, and only piano accompaniment until then. Her assistant scheduled the bona fides and made sure they cleared it with their unions and that their dues-portion was implicit in the fee. This assistant, Clara, her right and left hands come to think of it, took care of 4 first violins, 4 second, 5 violas, 2 french horns and the rest. Merrill personally saw to the hiring of professional singers for the solo bits. An ethereal soprano, boyishly handsome tenor, and robust bass had been signed-- Clara officiating over the contracts. These singers were almost nobility, running all day between opera auditions and teaching gigs, still expecting their big break to come from other more important performances. As Diva and Divos, they would have to attend only one rehearsal. That’s why they did the classical repertoire, because these Mozart bits were imprinted in singers DNA, so truly they didn’t need to practice their entrances. Moreover they were relieved not to be subjected to the cacophony of community chorus past the minimum requirement.
It was a late-summer performance evening. Tickets had sold at the door to the upholders of Culture in the town, a respectable showing that filled the pews with the educated and the religious. The vast protective space stretching between those in the pews and those in the choir, ensured that any motivations for attending were unimportant. For the most part the audience sat in politeness, straining their necks to see the beautifully attired, locally famous soloists who sat patiently with hands folded in their laps. Now the oratorios came and they stood up, this was a chance for the rest of the choir to stop rustling their scores and allow the silences between the phrases to be heard. Here were the fruits of their labor : a trumpet playing out and joined serially by the bass, tenor and soprano soloists, Tuba mirum spargens sonum, and then all three stars joined to agree,
A trumpet, spreading a wondrous sound
Through the graves of all lands,
Will drive mankind before the throne.
The late afternoon sun was still illuminating the stained-glass windows, and the dust motes in the upper reaches of the church also had their infusion of light, so that an ambient presence (Mozart?) seemed to be in there with them. Recordare, Jesu pie / Remember, blessed Jesu, That I am the cause of Thy pilgrimage, Anyone not so moved must have been checking their email, not listening with ‘open heart’ as they say in yoga practice. For this was a meditation across time; generations had heard the same story and derived their meanings from it. We were only waiting for these instructions, she thought to herself, holding ourselves ready for the expression of it to others.
Lovely. I especially like the last paragraph, with its feeling of immanent spiritual awakening.
ReplyDeleteI also love the opening paragraph, very solid, full of pungent imagery: "chest-swelling singers,", "jabbed her baton,", "very short woman." "... damn if it still isn’t one of the most heart-stopping moments in music."
I like the description of the singer in the "blinding collection of crystals and sequins."
I like the behind-the-scenes chorus production knowledge you bring to this vignette.
I like very much the paragraph that starts "It was a late-summer performance evening." And the final paragraph is beautiful.
I like the contrasts you bring in your language, "email" and "open heart." Contrasting the sublime and the petty, and bringing them both into your stories. Perhaps that's an authorial theme for you. Your own koan. "How does the sublime and the ridiculous exist harmoniously?"
I am missing one element that I thing would anchor this most firmly for the reader: a strong taste of the character of Merrill. I get a small odor of her, but not enough to feel that sense of "Ahah! I am in the presence of a real person!", an extremely difficult literary art, I'm sure. These kinds of things are accomplished sometimes, I think, by very small but very effective physical and psychological observations of human beings, and their intimate expressions of their interiority. Something as small as how one picks up a glass of water, how one walks, how the thighs move past each other, how the lips press together, when one shifts one's eyes, how one checks one's hair, or hunches one's shoulders, or picks at one's nail, gives us that feeling of the wholeness of personality, of human experience, in all its sublimity and ridiculousness. Who is Merrill?
Who's a really good writer for that sort of thing? Does Nabokov comes to mind? Flannery O'Connor? Who do you like to read for character?
:D Good stuff my dear!
by the way, 3rd paragraph: Pavarotti.