Into the Fire…

A funny thing happened yesterday. I made my solo musical debut. I know; I’m as surprised as you are. Here’s how it came down. 

A few weeks back at our weekly rehearsal, conductor Thomas had a few of us take turns standing in front of the rest of the choir and singing either solo or duet the introduction to one of the songs in our repertoire, a lively spiritual called This Little Light. I did this as a duet with Denise. It was fun, and I later told him I thought so. Then a couple of weeks ago, on a brief run-through of several songs, he asked me alone to sing the intro again. 

I should have seen what was coming. 

Then three nights ago at our rehearsal, he had me do it again. At that point, he informed the choir that I’d be singing this at our concert two days later at a church in Salem. Solo. As in alone. By myself. 

Two days. 

Two days to wrap my head around what was to transpire. 

“Wait! What?” I asked myself. “How did this happen?” You’re asking yourself the same thing now, aren’t you? He never actually warned me this was coming or asked me to do it. It was more like he volunteered me – the assumptive sale, so to speak. I didn’t have the good sense to protest. 

Now mind you, I’ve only been singing for 5 months. The mantras that have been swirling in my head since I began (e.g. “I can’t sing.” “I can barely carry a tune.” “Nobody wants to hear me sing.”) were rendered into irrelevance, as somehow if our choir director thought I was already competent enough to take the microphone myself as a valid representative of this group, then I needed to think I was competent enough to take the microphone myself. I needed to gather some confidence in myself, and I needed to do it fast. 

I had to grab and hold that I am a better singer than I think I am. 

Why was I chosen? I don’t think it was because he thought I was the most talented person available. There are lots of better singers literally in my reach in my bass section. Why not one of them? Why was he so sure I could pull this off? Maybe he sensed my natural lack of inhibition. We’re a no-audition choir, so maybe it was to prove a point, that with some practice and support, anybody could sing. 

And it was no small irony that I was singing a traditional Negro spiritual in a church, given that I’m white, I’m not spiritual, and I never go to church. 

The root of all this points to my girlfriend, Susan, the choir’s piano accompanist. Had she not taken the gig back in February, I surely never would have joined – it literally would never have crossed my mind. I would have spent my Thursday evenings doing other things. I would have spent yesterday afternoon bicycling or motorcycling.

Nevertheless, there I was. On a riser. On a pulpit. In a church. Singing, making beautiful harmonies, with 25 people that until 5 months ago, all but one were strangers. I enjoyed singing to our audience of around 50, hearing our flaws and triumphs, appreciating the talents of others in the group as they sang their solos. My song was the penultimate in our set list, and as my time approached, I could feel my blood pressure rise and my pulse quicken. 

Then I approached the microphone. Thomas introduced me quickly, then gave the signal to Susan to begin playing, and in almost a disconnected way, voice sounds began emanating from my throat. 

This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine! I sang softly. Thomas had told me at the last rehearsal to begin quietly and build momentum. 

This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine! I let some volume build. 

This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine! I let more volume build. 

Susan and I had practiced at her house before we left for the event, and she suggested that I never leave a long note at the same intensity. So as the last line approached, Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine! I boomed out the last note, giving it all the strength and power I had within me.

I have no idea how it sounded to the choir or the audience. Maybe there was spontaneous applause; I don’t know – I was too detached in the moment to absorb it. 

Susan’s piano continued and I turned and walked back to my prior place on the riser, catching appreciative glances from my fellow choir mates. “Good job!” one whispered. “You NAILED it,” mumbled another.  

It felt good. Fulfilling. Rewarding. 

One song later and the concert ended. 

We all went out together to a local restaurant where I was showered by more compliments. Maybe this singing thing isn’t so bad after all. 

Stay tuned.