Notes on Notes

The Culture of Choir

Riverside Church's late great Rev. Laubach explained, in one of our sporadic talks, that "church" has three connotations: an institution, a particular building, and members of either--as in, being a member of this or that faith (the institution), or, going to church (the building).

The culture of Choir is a sub-stratum, like the culture of the deaf, or AA, or dog walkers: there’s an outcry when a college for the deaf wants to appoint a hearing president, or operation is perfected to make the deaf hear. They have their own culture that the hearing don’t know, and they don’t want it taken from them.

Choir culture is like that.  We share the intimacy of being inches from other people’s faces, breathing at the same instant. We know music unknown outside the church. We know hymns, and have share a vocabulary: anthem, narthex, introit, cotta. There’s a chorus walk: the determined stride on the way to rehearsal. Much more, obviously.

When a church cuts a choir, the culture goes with it. And it’s not even the choir that’s the problem: it’s the relevance of what goes on at the core of the service, by which I mean the preaching. No one walks away from a sermon or service having decided to do what they’re talking about, and then doing it.

One of my first NYT Metro Diary entries was the one with the switchboard guy’s response when I said something about being our brother’s keeper: "I don’t read the Bible, ma’am, I just work at the switchboard." That comes to mind because the church where I presently sing has this campy guy at the phone, who insists on knowing everyone’s name--whether he knows them or not--before he connects to a voicemail. If you prefer not to give a name, he slams the phone. What kind of front is that for a Christian church?  He's much more part of the problem than any choir.

Better to have Loved and Lost

Allen Hughes was the editor who assigned my first New York Times Arts & Leisure story, in 1982. One didn’t email suggestions in those days because there was no Internet. You phoned, heart in mouth, trying to estimate the best time of day. He was kind about my idea of 4-hand piano music, but had no room in the foreseeable future. Then suddenly he phoned and said someone had backed out and could I have it done in a week. I was playing that rep all the time--I got the idea for the article when Patelson’s (the late great) received my order of Reger’s arrangement of the Brandenburg concertos, and I woke Richard at 1 AM to ask him to play treble, and he was good to go.

So, piece of cake. Write what you know.

Allen said Bob Berkvist was enchanted by the article, and that was the beginning of my time at Arts & Leisure. He occasionally urged me to write for the stage. He said my writing had something theatrical, and that other subjects were "far more interesting than allegro and diminuendo."

One time he assigned me a piece on a famous string quartet, whose publicist went down to the Times and told him she preferred a different writer. He phoned and gently told me that my piece was cancelled and that he’d soon assign me another.

Then the publicist called me in a panic and wisely told the truth--that she’d wanted one of her friends, and that she knew the minute she said so that she’d made a big mistake. She said Allen seemed to grow huge, and fire and smoke came out of his ears and nose, and he thundered that no one told the Times what writers to choose, and that now none of her clients would be covered. (She wanted me to intercede for her, which I did, and he said placidly, "Yes, I can be scary sometimes.")

He was a wonderful copy editor: "Let’s just move this comma over here. Do you mind if we use your lovely second paragraph at the beginning?" It was so smooth.

And he was fun. Once when we were both reviewing at Carnegie Hall, I went over to his seat at intermission and said, "Would you like to hear a really smarmy story?" He squnched up his face and closed his eyes--and nodded, with a little smile.

I missed him from the moment he said he was looking forward to retirement. Had lunch with his lovely wife when we ran into each other on jury duty. Every so often I’d phone him in North Salem, but it was far away. People drift.

The Performer Speaks--Sort of

 Working on a story about "Ancient Paths, Modern Voices," Carnegie Hall's three-week all-city tribute to Chinese culture, I find myself not writing a paragraph about pre-concert interviews, discussions and the like.  The reason is that that paragraph belongs here, so here it is.

A number of prestigious performers, including Tan Dun and Lang Lang, emceed at their concerts, talking enthusiastically (and redundantly) about how great it is to be here, and how they remember this or that about their experience with the music we are about to hear. 

Apparently unaware or contemptuous of public speaking as a skill if not an art, they mumbled, looked downward, spoke in impenetrable accents or moved handheld microphones away from their mouths while speaking.  If they performed on instruments the way they addressed the audience, they'd be laughed off the stage.  Panel discussions were no better. 

Perhaps they're used to the solitude necessary for long hours of daily practice.  Perhaps they'd be less good if they spent time talking.  Perhaps the speaking could be done by festival planners who can let the paying audience in on subjects that came up as they sold each other on ideas.  Or if the audience needs to hear what the performer has to say, make a little rehearsal time in a large hall with mikes.

Three paragraphs.  That ought to do it.