With this article, I wanted to write down some random thoughts I had on the day of the chorus concert two weeks ago. Of course, the lion’s share of my attention that night was devoted to sneaking gulps of air where I probably shouldn’t have, briefly damaging the chorus’s pleasant-sounding rhythm because I forgot to look up at the conductor before the next measure, and the actual singing. But during the moments when I didn’t have to sing — listening to the Garnet Singers perform as a member of the audience; listening to Roderick Williams (British baritone and composer) get lost within his solo while buoyed by the gentle, ethereal waves of the orchestra; and watching the post-show crowd crawl about in the Lang Music lobby with bouquets and gift bags — I found my mind wandering and restless, wanting to hold on to something. Or, as it turns out, several things. Here are some of the things I was thinking about when I wasn’t singing: before, during, and after the chorus part of the concert.
Before the chorus needed to gather adjacent to the stage for our portion of the concert, the Garnet Singers had to perform. I was listening to them from a seat that was both pretty far back from the stage and also overlooking the orchestra. Sat at the three seats to my left were a boy with a fidget spinner in his hand, his father, and then the boy’s younger brother, who wore a cobalt-blue trilby adorned on one side with a pure white feather and beads of two or three different colors. I know this only from coincidental glances in that general direction. It was during one of these glances though that I experienced two comfortingly memorable moments.
One, the boy with the fidget spinner had his head lounging on his father’s shoulder, his eyes flickering erratically in a way that suggested to me boredom or associated tiredness, while his father had one arm curled round his son’s shoulder. It looked to me to be … sweet. I felt happy for the two of them, a father and son who instinctively found comfort in each other’s presence through the sense of touch. The father enjoyed making his son feel more comfortable. And the son enjoyed both having a soft, warm pillow to rest his head upon and also getting to, or at least trying to, enjoy this concert in the close company of somebody he trusts and respects as a child wanting to feel safe in a big, overwhelming world.
Two, the boy wearing the trilby was introduced to some professors by his father, and one of the things one professor said was something like, “That’s a cool hat you have on!” The boy nodded with a shy smile, and his father patted his son on the shoulder. I really enjoyed hearing this conversation, because I felt delighted that the boy had a supportive father figure. He was wearing something unusual in an everyday fashion sense and something unusual always draws the attention of instinctively curious passersby. It can be intimidating to deviate from what’s normal, especially with regard to clothing, but this boy didn’t seem intimidated at all. He just seemed quietly confident in his decision to wear what he wanted to. It was wonderful to imagine how having a supportive father figure helped him in solidifying his self-confidence.
An unrelated event, also before the chorus was due to sing, involved a mother and her son. I remember this because the mother exclaimed at one point to a relative sitting beside her that “I can’t wait to hear my boy sing!” The son was all smiles. Maybe also a raised eyebrow’s worth of shyness. They have each other, these two strangers. I haven’t any doubts about that. Equally wonderful to witness.
During a brief respite within the performance of “Cats In Airpumps” — a piece written by Williams and debuted by the chorus — I remember looking out into the audience, scanning every seat and the face of its inhabitant just because. My eyes stopped without warning on an old couple sitting a few rows away from the stage, towards the right side of the concert hall. Then, I had to sing again. But my eyes lingered on the pair for maybe half a minute into the singing: throughout that span of time, I saw the same thing over and over again. The wife was resting her head upon her husband’s shoulder, high up enough to the extent that her gray curls looked to be tickling the stubble on his chin. And the both of them had their eyes trained on the chorus, not each other. Neither of them moved, but I remember distinctly how they were holding hands. That cage of private affection rested just underneath the armrest their adjacent chairs shared, saying everything that the pair wanted each other to know without either of them having to speak at all. It was … sweet. Romance aside, it also made me think about the act of living one’s life. These two strangers have lived much longer than I have: countless heartbreaks, regrets about all that they did and didn’t do, and memories of what it felt like to smile, to laugh, to grieve, to sigh, to cry to yourself without knowing why, to hurt, and to heal. And one day, I too will be in their shoes. I’ll look back on my life and reminisce over all that I lost, all that I did and didn’t do, and all that I gained. It’s inevitable that I’ll have much to regret. But it’s also inevitable that I’ll have much to not regret, too.
After the chorus’ performance, I went up to one of the classrooms where I’d put away my things. Walking out with all items on hand, I immediately felt drawn to the growing noise coming from the lobby, and watched everyone from the topmost floor for a bit. A lot of the conversation I couldn’t make out, but a lot of human interaction I enjoyed watching just because: bouquets and mystery bags heaped upon the performers (Garnet Singers, Chorus, and the Orchestra), people talking — their eyes flashing with feelings I couldn’t identify from a distance — and the hugs. The memory I wanted to discuss happened while I was in the midst of walking through the bustling lobby: out of nowhere, I heard a lot of loud exclamations and cheering coming from the topmost floor and looked up. Like the elongated body of “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” stood member after member of an athletics team, most of them wearing apparel emblazoned with the sport they played. They were very loud, yes, but not unpleasantly so. After all, they were flooding the concertmaster with extraordinary praise. I remember hearing the concertmaster mentioning — from where he sat a few feet away from the chorus risers — to another member of the orchestra that the sports team he was a part of were probably going to meet him in the lobby after the performance.
It was touching. Community: the opposite of loneliness. People you know (at least some of whom you hold some affection for) coming to physically express their support of you, your everyday efforts in this other activity you’re passionate about, and your latest accomplishment. Feeling in that moment that you’re so happy with yourself, with life as it presently is, that you’re about to pop like a firework. And fireworks are pretty. Brief but beautiful. And they can be enjoyed either alongside others or alone. That night, the concertmaster was enjoying some fireworks with others in the Lang Music lobby. And me? I was enjoying those fireworks alone. Out of Lang Music, through and out of LPAC, all the way back to Mary Lyon, and within the comfort of my own room. Music’s terrific, isn’t it?
That’s all I’ve to say for tonight (it’s roughly 11:50 p.m. as I’m writing this sentence). I wasn’t planning on writing anything over Thanksgiving, but I suppose the idea of shaping cloudy memories into something tangible has a charm that’s difficult to look away from. Especially small, random, but important memories from a very memorable night.
