On sudden death, the logistics of Holy Communion and being on top

As I was speeding down a Belgian motorway at 100 mph, in a monstrosity of Volvo driven by our conductor and containing the organist, half the cantoris sopranos and all the music, I clutched the back of my seatbeltless seat and wondered why I couldn’t have chosen a less perilous hobby than singing in a church choir. We had Händel’s Messiah on full blast, and were joyfully singing along. I guess there are worse ways to die. We were, predictably, late.

There is something inherently last-minute about this particular choir. We are the cathedral “B-team” and when the little trebles in the real Cathedral Choir are on school holidays, the lay clerks too hung-over, the organist sulking in the loft, or the director of music can’t be bothered, we step in, with all the zeal and haphazard ability we can muster. When our presence is no longer required, we demurely retreat into the catacombs of Christ Church, or, as in this case, haunt other cathedrals. After two days in Belgium we had managed to find our way to the cathedral in Brussels, got lost on the way out of the Belgian capital, and eventually ended up in Antwerp, where we sang a service to the restrained delight of an eccentric vicar in the Anglican church who thought the mass setting by Byrd was lovely, but a bit long. (It’s perfect, thank you very much!) By the time the altos had drunk our bar of choice out of rosé wine, I had already switched to a gueuze by the enticing name of “Mort Subite”.

The repertoire of sacred choral music is as vast and wonderful as the rehearsal time is short. Even when we make it in time for the rehearsal, it is only 45 minutes long. Singing something unfamiliar the first time you see it while surrounded by other people (especially if those people are tenors) is intimidating in a way reminiscent of the Belgian motorway; you never know what may be lurking behind the next turn, someone else’s efforts may put you off track and if it goes wrong it will all crash horribly. Us sopranos have the easiest job, really, as being on top seems to require less concentration. However, if, for instance, you have to come in on, and hold, a particularly nasty high note (and in this old sacred music written for little boys they can be high), you Must. Not. Fail. Get it wrong – you fail. Get it right and hesitate – you fail. Get it right, hold it correctly for one bar and lose concentration in the second – you fail. And if you do, even the most tone-deaf old don in the congregation will notice and you will be guilty of what in the real world might be known as a “blonde moment” – in choirs it is simply a “soprano moment”.

My worst blonde soprano moment (yes, I am both, imagine how the basses tease me), actually had nothing to do with the singing, but occurred instead when I had to lead the choir to communion for the first time. We leave the safety of the choir stalls at the back of the church and march (sorry, process) through the cathedral to receive communion ahead of the congregation. The sopranos at the end go first, and whereas my decani counterpart did the right thing, I kneeled in the wrong place, upset the rhythm and timing of the whole enterprise and when we came back to the stalls we were all in the wrong order. It can only be hoped that the congregation had its mind on higher things…

So, despite (or because of) the mortal peril, and the fact that we are always pressed for time, it is always fun and rewarding. In the end we were a mere 20 minutes late, and got through the mass in Brussels cathedral incident-free – and even if we were only told the set list for the concert 3 hours before the event, it, too, worked out ok. It usually does.

I will never get tired of the Messiah. But I took the Eurostar back home.

Torrential thoughs

As I wandered along the Thames towards Christ Church meadow, in the ever so light drizzle, which barely merited putting the hood on my jacket up (even if I did), I reflected that nature can look very pretty in the rain. The sky may be grey, but the grass is greener than ever. Oxford, which I usually prefer sunny, actually looks quite nice when it’s wet too. I had hugged my special tree and was heading for the gate when the rain suddenly changed.

Gone was the drizzle. Replaced by serious rain. The kind of rain which means business. Rain which looks you in the face and says “you talkin’ to me? Well, you about to get wet.”. For a second or so I considered hiding underneath a tree for a while. Then I came to my senses, took my hood off and stared right back at the rain.

Yes, I smiled at the leaden sky, started playing in the puddles and reaffirmed my belief that hiding from the rain is for wimps, the English, and spiders – and realised that this particular brand of torrential downpour really only allows for hiding… and embracing. As I AM in England, and all people in the near vicinity were equipped with higher sensibilities as well as umbrellas, I was quite alone in enjoying the sensation of being completely and utterly soaked.

Merton street was delightfully deserted and flooded and I decided to go for a little extended stroll up the High, ending up outside Hertford – again completely alone. Quite remarkable, at 7 pm on a Tuesday night in Oxford. More abandoned than at midnight; Radcliffe Camera mine to behold in peace.

In short, I had a grand old time and immensely relished the warmth of being enclosed in summer (for I decided that that was what it was) rain, coming at me from all directions. Cheerfully I headed towards High street again, homeward bound this time, and then the inevitable happened.

The rain, unforgivably, stopped. Just as being in torrential rain is curiously warm, being out of it, but still soaked, is curiously cold. Suddenly, people emerged from underneath doorways and umbrellas and I was no longer the only person on the street. I was, however, the only one who resembled a drenched cat. So I scurried home, realised that it must be the humiliation AFTER the rain that makes people hide from it and quickly jumped in the shower (shooing away the spider who was hiding from the rain in it, the silly bastard). But will I play in the rain again? You bet your ass.