Listened to the Sounds

Delaware Choral Arts presents some of the finest choral concerts in my area.  Yet there's something bothersome to me about choral music or opera or oratorios.  Even when sung in my native language, not only can I rarely discern the words, but often I cannot figure out that the group or soloist is singing in English.  The organizers are well aware of this, so they provide a transcript of the text which the usher distributes at the entry to the auditorium or sanctuary along with the program.  I picked mine up, found a seat in the pew, read over some of the program, then made a key decision.  I would not follow the program, just listen.  I clapped when everyone else clapped.  I knew how many pieces were on each side of intermission.  I knew how many movements each of the two long pieces contained but not when each ended, until everyone clapped at the end.  And the transcript of the text just stayed on the coarse red cushion that the church offers as its pew's seating surface.  And I listened.

My 8th Grade music teacher, Mr. Nasser, once challenged us to rank the relative importance of the words and the music.  He insisted that language has to take priority, as we think verbally and the composer depends on the texts to create the music.  I bought into his instruction at the time, but as I attend more concerts where the language never captures my pretty decent comprehension of English, I've become more of a skeptic.

So yesterday I put the text transcription aside and just listened to the sounds.  Polyphonic voices.  Keyboard accompaniment.  Soloists merging with instruments.  A bassist and percussionist for one of the pieces on the program, with the composer offering a plethora of percussion sounds.  Singers of various vocal registers.  Entry and silence directed by the conductor.  The text really didn't matter to my auditory experience.  Probably a great disappointment to the composer, and maybe an even bigger one to the author of the texts, as yesterday's concert was largely adapted from African-American literature and Spirituals.  The author created ideas.  I missed them to get the composer's sounds instead.

Different Churches

Two in one day.  My wife has taken a liking to choral music, serving as President of one ensemble and a dedicated singer in another.  A rarity, two concerts on the same day, one in mid-afternoon devoted to Spirituals joined by a fabulous children's choir, the other at night in conjunction with the local symphony with a few choral all-stars from a nearby high school added to the singers.  Each took place in a church, though with very different environments and outcomes.

First church very familiar to me.  It sits about midway between the central corporate and financial center of town and the main courthouse, a place of prompt resolution of business disputes which keeps my state in the public eye.  Getting to the church early, driving through a few streets that had a high crime look, though abutted by other impressive church buildings of noble history, I parked in good space, then walked a few blocks through the neighborhood.  There is a main street, once probably a place of valuable real estate, though not for a while.  Were it not for Sunday morning, those blocks would be largely abandoned as are the business and legal neighborhoods on the weekends.  Yet the church itself has maintained the integrity of its exterior and an aged handsomeness to its interior.  The concert took place in its sanctuary, a spacious though not cavernous room with two levels, likely remodeled a few times over its existence.  It's massive pipe organ was relatively new, funded with a massive capital campaign, though the pipes themselves visible from the pews did not sparkle.  Flooring, walls, windows all a little worn, lighting less than the brightness that modern fixtures offer.  Yet a space of heritage more than decline.

It serves a multiethnic neighborhood with people of African ancestry living nearby, and in this age of a robust African-American prosperous representation, some who probably commute from the suburbs.  Those of European ancestry seemed older, probably from the nearer suburbs, though a few still loyal to their church despite having moved to the tonier neighborhoods of the county as their salary increases allowed.  The choir itself has its base in the church but attracts from a broad area, more Caucasian in distribution than the church, even with a few from South Asia, though with the Middle and Far East largely without representation.  And the repertoire that the independent choir adopted reflected the heritage of a church committed to continuing on, adapting as needed to surroundings that were once better.

The night concert took place in a much different setting.  For many years, the regional symphony in proximity to the state university assembled a choir for a joint concert.  They also perform in a church.  Until this year, that church stood on Main Street, a multipurpose building of tasteful brick architecture, small parking lot ample for worshipers, too small for concert attendance.  It's location right on the main thoroughfare of a university town enabled me to transport my wife to the church while I stopped for a pleasant light dinner or a beer.  This year the symphony and choir relocated to a different church just beyond walking distance to the university.  No pubs to stop into. 

Huge campus though.  Ample parking, several visible wings.  Main sanctuary just inside a small vestibule.  Cavernous space. Plush in every way.  The Presbyterian cross suspended over the stage.  Modern acoustics.  And virtually all Caucasian, audience and performers.  The ad hoc chorus invited choral all-stars from a nearby high school.  Caucasian there too.  And amongst the people who checked folks in.  For a performance imprinted with the state university I would have anticipated greater diversity.  The music was fine, though perhaps a little unsettling that people of color did not seem attracted to perform as instrumental musicians or vocalists, nor attend as people seeking entertainment of that type.  Or maybe that environment.

Leaving the performance, the road home forced us back to the edges of the university.  Neon glitter.  Places to eat, get gas, shop a little farther along the road.  By comparison, the church seemed something of an island seeking separation.  And it succeeded.

Could Use an Adventure

Our Covid-19 pandemic becomes gradually less intrusive with each passing week.  Delaware Choral Arts held a live concert with restrictions on attendance.  In-person worship has returned to my synagogue.  Osher Institute plans to open its building and conduct live classes with the coming semester.  In-person dining remains shvok, though travel has become more commonplace.  I do not know how our theme parks have done or if campers, hunters, and explorers have resumed their personal challenges.  Thrill experiences were put on hold.  Those who seek them out must be eager to move forward.

I've never been a real thrill seeker.  I used to like amusement parks, especially the roller coasters, until my inner ear judged otherwise a few amusement parks ago.  At the water park, I will try a tame slide but devote more time to the lazy river or wave pool.  On the highway I drive at the speed of traffic and defer to the aggression of the NASCAR wannabes.  No hang gliding, bungee jumping, or parachuting.  No taking my chances as a pedestrian in an unsafe neighborhood to experience diversity up front.

It's not that I reject adventure, just define it in a risk averse way.  I regret not having set a day of white water rafting as one of my day trips or going out deep sea fishing, or even snorkeling at a resort.  There are suitable thrills that go beyond simply new experiences.  Covid-19 should not serve as an excuse for what is really being timid.