On Singing -- From "Hallelujah" to "Coraggio"

Part 2 of 4 in the series My Three Commitments

(credit: Substack AI)

About 25 years ago, before the days of airplane wifi, Spotify, and AirPods, I was on a lengthy flight to a psychology conference to present several papers. They were ready to go in my briefcase, but my choice for study en route was to be found in the music I'd be singing with one of my choirs right after I returned home. Once airborne, I pulled out my notebook of music and proceeded to review the scores (mentally) for the duration of the flight. I could easily "hear" the music and my part within it by reading the pages of music. I could dive into some of the tough passages and go over them repeatedly until I felt I had it, at least cognitively. It was a good workout. I felt much better prepared for the performance afterwards, without having uttered a sound.

As we prepared to land, I gathered everything together and exhaled. When the fasten seat belt sign was turned off, I started to get up ... and the woman next to me asked simply, "Are you a musician?"

I found myself starting to stumble around with a lame answer like -- Oh not really, I just add my humble voice to 3 choirs back home. But then I snapped out of it, and said "Yes!" An identity moment, for sure.

I don't remember the ensuing conversation, in which I surely added plenty of mitigation to my assertion. But it was a significant "moment," and I do embrace that identity. And the musician named Hal sings in choirs and has done so for years.

Why have I been doing that? And why is it such a huge passion at this time of my life?

It probably helps that I have happy childhood memories about singing. My mother sang in the church choir when I was young, and she used to take me up in the choir loft with her (where no one could see me) as long as I "behaved" (i.e., kept quiet.) I mostly did, but there were occasions when I tried to sing along - enthusiastically. Somehow, we got away with it. I remember those transgressions fondly. My father had a very pleasant voice and carried a tune well -- he never sang with a group or professionally, but he was always singing along (or whistling along) with the crooners on the radio or his LPs. So the stage was set for me to be drawn to singing. No pressure or achievement focus; just pure enjoyment.

I've sung most of my adult life -- in combinations of church choirs (6, by my count), community choruses (another 6), and several informal groups, spread across 50+ years and 3 states. The amazing thing about singing in a choir is that members check their social and occupational identities at the door and are united by one thing and one thing only -- a shared love of music. Choir "social hours" can sometimes feel awkward, because you're supposed to socialize with people you've sung with for perhaps many years, but you don't know anything about them - except for your joint contributions to making beautiful music.

Other than occasional awkward moments, what do I experience in choral singing? Let me count them:

First, singing is physical -- it involves one's breath -- what could be more elemental than that? Breathing in, and then producing sound. Singing involves the brain, the mouth, the throat and vocal chords, the lungs, the diaphragm, one's skeletal frame and musculature -- pretty much everything. Warm-ups often involve stretching exercises just like you'd do before a workout. Staying in good physical shape helps with singing, and vice versa. Daniel Levitin's 2024 book, "I Heard There Was a Secret Chord: Music as Medicine" provides an accessible overview of the many ways in which listening to and producing music intimately involve the nervous, endocrine, and immune systems.

Second, singing in a group is relational. You are singing in time and in tune with other people, and you are following a director. You don't need to know the other singers very well, but you do have to develop a shared understanding of the piece being sung and how you will work together to make it all happen.

The only one-person choirs I know of are those clever virtual "choirs" that sprang up during COVID, in which one person records him or herself singing multiple parts, and then splices the harmonies together. Fascinating and creative, but not your usual gig. A great example is Tim Waurick, who records himself singing all four SATB parts (soprano / alto / tenor / bass). He's quite good, and certainly a YouTube phenom. Here's his recent version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." Definitely worth a listen.

It's a fun novelty, but I don't think I'd like to listen to it for hours on end. Even though he is singing all 4 parts, his is the same voice, with the same timbre and expression. It's not quite as rich as hearing four different people sing those four parts. But you be the judge.

Third, singing is intellectual. Most choral singing requires that you read music and understand basics of music theory. Singing complex music engages the brain in a good workout -- parsing those black blobs on the page and transforming them into sounds. And then you blend your sounds with the sounds that other people are making in response to the black blobs they see on their pages. When you reflect on what's happening, it's actually quite a remarkable process. (See Levitin's book for the fascinating details.)

Fourth, singing is emotional. Most songs have words, and those strings of words carry meaning, usually about topics that are consequential --- love, reverence, awe, hurt, joy, longing. Watching "The Voice" is one of my guilty pleasures, and I have learned a great deal as various coaches help their contestants to become better story-tellers with their music. I love hearing Reba McEntire's highest praise going to singers whose performances touch her emotionally. If your song can make Reba cry, you've had a good day.

Fifth, singing can be both spiritual (for the singer) and inspirational (for the listener.) Not all music is spiritual in nature, but much of it is. So much of the choral repertoire is based on sacred texts. When I am singing them, I find it hard not to be drawn just a little closer to mystery.

Sixth, making music leads to a sense of accomplishment. Choral singing has a beginning (planning), a middle (rehearsing), and an end (performing.) There's nothing better than coming to that end with that feeling of a job well done.

And that leads to my final point -- that choral singing is a way to give back. From time to time, I have downplayed that notion - thinking that I get much more out of it than the audience does. But then I think of how moved I have been as an audience member by the many choral performances I've heard over the years. The connection between performers and audience is palpable, if you are open to it. And sometimes, I'm moved to tears. Magic.

What seems like a simple or straightforward act actually has many layers -- and I've found that the more experienced I become, the deeper I can go in exploring them. What's not to like about that?

Despite all those rewards, choral singing can have its challenging moments, for sure. My first introduction to organized singing came in 5th grade, where I auditioned and was accepted for the elementary school choir. Although I learned a lot and thoroughly enjoyed it, I distinctly remember two difficult encounters that delivered some unexpected lessons.

The choir was directed by Miss Florence S. She was quite a good music teacher, but she was also very (let us say) tightly wound. I remember that for one performance, we were all on the stage behind the curtain, and she began to have a meltdown. I don't remember what we did or did not do -- we were probably not paying attention to her -- and it was not to her liking. She proceeded to get our attention by crying and yelling. But the minute the curtain opened, she was smiling and transformed for the audience of parents. "It's show time, folks!"

I also VIVIDLY remember singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" from Handel's Messiah before leaving for Easter break when I was in 6th or 7th grade. We sang it in the stairwell for special effect. I was an enthusiastic singer -- a soprano then, because my voice had not yet changed. When we got to the last note (that last "Ha-Le-Lu-JAH!!!!!"), Miss S. held it, but I wasn't watching well enough and kept singing (probably for a nanosecond) after she cut off.

Well - I was mortified, and she heaped on shame by telling me I had ruined the performance for the whole school (really). I remember walking home with a huge cloud over my head; thankfully my mother was there to console me, and I did need consolation. I still remember it in detail to this day, 60+ years later.

I learned two lessons from Miss S: a) If you're ever directing a bunch of kids, don't be like Miss S.; and b) If you're a singer, keep your eyes glued to the director! If the latter was the lesson she intended to deliver, it worked. I actually don't think she was that planful about it - in both cases, she just reacted. A consequence of that lesson was that it made me an overly cautious singer, and I have been actively working to counteract that in recent years. But in self defense, I always watch the director at the end of the Hallelujah Chorus like a hawk! Haven't messed it up since!

The irony of the story is that, after the Easter break, I asked my friends if they noticed my unintentional solo. No one had -- because WE WERE IN THE STAIRWELL, which acted like an echo chamber!

Choral singing has also taught me courage and confidence. Last summer, I had the great pleasure of singing with the Berkshire Choral International program at Tanglewood. We sang together for four days, and then performed in Ozawa Hall. Click on the video for a brief clip about our program there.

It was one of my peak musical experiences, for sure. The rehearsals started out the way most choir rehearsals do, with people seated in their respective voice sections (soprano / alto / tenor / bass). Toward the end of the first day, our director, Frank Nemhauser, asked us all to stand up and move to another chair, to sit next to someone we love. That seemed like a pretty strange request, since most of us didn't really know any of the other singers well, no less consider them love interests. But we all laughed nervously and then shuffled ourselves around ... a little bit.

It is quite a different experience to sit in a mixed arrangement, where you can't rely on others singing your voice part. And of course, that was his whole point. He wanted us to take more responsibility for our own parts, singing more independently and confidently, and not drafting off the other singers in our section. Many times, he said, with passion, "Coraggio!" - Italian for "Courage!" After the little experiment, we returned to our old seats and exhaled, but with some sense of intrigue about what was to come. Over the several days of rehearsals, we spent more and more time mixed, and for the final performance, our seating was thoroughly mixed by part. I sang 2nd tenor and was seated between a 1st alto and a 2nd alto, both of whom were excellent. Having to listen to both of them carefully and know where my part fit in made me a better -- and yes, a more courageous and independent -- singer. Thank you, Frank!

Our performance was the last he would conduct prior to his retirement after over 30 years with BCI. On our last day, I remember him saying the following to us (gently paraphrased): "As a group, you are all individuals who have come together from all over North America to share an intensive experience to prepare an outstanding performance -- after which you will all return home, never to sing together again. I encourage you each to "pay it forward" as you return to your home choirs, enhanced by our experience together. And remember, as we sang today in 'Who is Sylvia?' Beauty lives with kindness." Such moving thoughts from such a talented and generous director. It touched all of us deeply.

Now that I am almost fully retired, I have the luxury of spending more time learning and rehearsing. I'm taking voice lessons from a faculty member at UMass who enjoys working with mature singers from the community - she understands the physical challenges of singing as our bodies age. I enjoy waiting my turn in the hallway of the music building, where on every side are faculty studios with all kinds of sounds coming out -- a trumpet to the left, a soprano to the right, a saxophone further down the hall -- and when I leave, the choir is rehearsing in the auditorium. It's all good. It's all so very good. I may have been tired when I entered the building, but I am always pumped when I leave.

I am continuing to sing with Hampshire Choral Society in Amherst, and I've been accepted to sing at Tanglewood again next May with BCI. The year ahead may even hold more musical adventures; I am always on the lookout. I'm now better plugged in to the local choral scene, and am finding events like the Pioneer Valley "Summer Sings" -- several summer afternoons where anyone who wants to sing gathers together and we sing through a major piece, just for fun. Usually, many in the gtoup have sung them before. Last summer, I joined for the Fauré Requiem -- an all time favorite. I also joined in the the Messiah Sing-a-Long at Grace Church a few weeks ago. And you can believe I kept a sharp eye on that director as we approached the end of the Hallelujah Chorus.

I plan to keep singing as long as I am able. Music will always be a source of great joy for me. I am intrigued by how much we are learning about music as medicine -- how producing and listening to music can be therapeutic. For other essays in which I have addressed this topic, please click on the following:

I want to give yet another shout-out to Daniel Levitin's fascinating recent book, "I Heard There Was a Secret Chord: Music as Medicine." I will close with this link to a free-wheeling conversation between Levitin and Livingston Taylor about the book and its treasurehouse of information on the many benefits of listening to and making music. I hope you enjoy it.

I'd be fascinated to hear your stories about music -- feel free to hit the comment icon below and share your story. I look forward to it!