After months of rehearsal – and the holiday concert not a week away – the sopranos had suddenly become shrill while the altos sank to a half-tone flat. Worse yet, the best tenor’s voice changed over a weekend, and the bass who was supposed to sing a solo had laryngitis.
As a result, our choral music teacher was tearing out his hair and muttering a river of curses in Italian. A Julliard graduate, Alexander Azzolina had sung at opera houses all over the world. Women reportedly swooned at the sound of his rich tenor voice. A consummate professional in the adult world, Mr. A. was reduced to tears of frustration in the high school choral room. Because of us.
The routine was the same every year. We started rehearsing in September so there was plenty of time to learn the music, memorize the words, and get the voices to blend, The process ran smoothly until November, when SAT’s, Thanksgiving, and the homecoming game were on the horizon.
Santa Claus was coming to town and we kids were distracted.
Things started deteriorating at the first rehearsal in December, so extra practices were scheduled before and after school. Everyone grumbled and griped. Mr. A. had to tap his baton two, three, four times on the music stand to get us to quiet down and pay attention. When we were really distracted, he snapped his baton in two for good measure.
Besides singing Hanukah songs in Hebrew, yuletide tunes from other cultures in Spanish and German, and a cantata of Appalachian Christmas Carols, we were singing challenging sections from Handel’s “Messiah.” The school had purchased new blue choir robes with white satin sashes for the Vocal Ensemble, and a professional musician, instead of one of the students, was engaged as accompanist.
Besides the singing, Mr. A had designed a new way to delight the audience. Once they were all settled in their seats, the lights in the auditorium would dim and then on cue, the chorus – each one carrying a lit candle – processed in, singing “Silent Night.” When we ascended to the stage and arranged ourselves properly on the risers, we were to finish the song and blow out our candles in one breath.
Our marching orders were clear, but the closer we got to opening night, the more our skills eroded. We tripped, giggled, even forgot words to songs we’d known since we could sing fa-la-la-la-la-la. If it kept up, the outcome was inevitable: Mr. A. would erupt like Mount Vesuvius.
Dress rehearsal was a Christmas disaster, but stories like this have happy endings, at least when they get written down, so I remember that particular performance as note perfect.
Every year at this time I take the sheet music out, play the songs, and sing along. The voices of my classmates are distinct, their faces round and sweet in the soft candlelight of memory.
I remember Peggy K. and Dot S’s lilting duet of “Oh Thou that Tellest Good Tidings to Zion.” And Richard K’s rendition of “The People That Walked in Darkness” thrilled the audience. For the grand finale, the audience was asked to follow tradition and stand for the “Halleluiah Chorus.”
Mr. A, his dark eyes snapping, had transformed the rabble of lively teenagers into a finely-tuned instrument.
At the end of the concert, forehead glazed with sweat, Mr. Azzolina blew us a kiss before he took his bow. Afterwards, we handed in our robes and rushed off to be with friends and family. For days after, everyone talked about the magic of that winter night when the school seemed to levitate on a cushion of young voices raised in song and praise with Handel’s “Messiah.”
