I don’t know what triggered this particular memory for me, but I realized last night that it was 35 years ago this week that I had an experience that shaped me more than just about any other. Here’s that story.
I had sung in public most of my life, and I spent my entire middle school years singing in the chorus. By the time I got to high school, I had thought about choir but not seriously. During my sophomore year, a friend of mine from church told me that the choir director/music teacher was planning on taking the concert choir to New York City to perform in Carnegie Hall the following November, but I would have to audition and join the next quarter to be eligible to go on the trip.
I didn’t hesitate to sign up and join the choir. Joining wasn’t a problem, but jumping into the winter quarter of school and having to learn all the parts in time for the Christmas concert was an issue. I basically faked it through Christmas, but once we got through that concert and started on new music, I was good to go.
Sometime after Christmas, we had a parent meeting for the New York trip. The cost of the trip was daunting — over $900 — but Scott Daniell, our choir director, said that we would raise the funds. I was excited; it was starting to become real!
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At some point, we learned that we would be performing Haydn’s Missa Sancti Nicolai with several other choirs and the Manhattan Philharmonic. We would also perform a few songs at Wall Street’s historic Trinity Church. We began to practice the mass alongside our regular material for the spring concert.
Our big fundraiser took place that summer: a concert featuring soprano Florence Fowler Peacock, who was part of one of our most prestigious local families. She sang with us, on her own, and in duets with Mr. Daniell’s wife, also a soprano. It was a nerve-wracking event, but we pulled it off. My mom even volunteered to help pass out programs.
There’s an old saying that goes something like, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice, practice.” And that we did. We worked on the mass as well as songs for the Trinity Church concert, one of which called for a tenor solo. Somehow, I became that soloist.
We took off for the Big Apple the week before Thanksgiving. That month had already become a pivotal month for me because my family helped start the church where we’re still members today, and this trip was a big deal for me because up to that point in my life, I was prone to homesickness. We traveled by bus as a cost-saving measure, and it seemed like we were on the road forever.
I wish I could remember the exact timeline of our trip, but everything in my memory is a tableau. Besides, 35 years is a long time ago. The Daniells and several other adults, including our principal and his wife, chaperoned our rowdy group. We took an extensive tour of the city, and I remember our over-the-top chipper tour guide getting our attention by waving a water bottle over her head and saying, “Follow the bottle!”
I’m sure as we wandered the streets of pre-Seinfeld (well, one episode had aired by that time) and pre-Giuliani New York City, people thought we were a bunch of yahoos. One guy on the trip had allegedly never been outside our home county in his life, although I’m not sure that was true. Although we tried to act like we were so sophisticated, we probably came across as bumpkins — or at least as a bunch of obnoxious teenagers.
We experienced genuine New York pizza and ate at the famous Beefsteak Charlie’s (which I was dismayed to recently learn was a chain). We also had dinner at a pretentious restaurant and rang up an enormous bill — the $50 refill pitchers of Pepsi probably had a lot to do with that. We took a cruise around the Statue of Liberty, and, of course, we had rehearsals. (Remember: “Practice, Practice, Practice!”)
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One of the highlights of our trip was going to see “Les Misérables” on Broadway. I was familiar with a couple of the songs, but nothing prepared me for what I saw and heard that night. I was hooked, and I’m still a massive Les Mis fan today. I’ve seen it several more times live, but nothing was like that night on the Great White Way.
The day before our big night at Carnegie Hall, we sang at Trinity Church. The other high school choruses that were part of the Carnegie performance did short concerts as well, and we all watched each other. Finally, the time came for my solo. I stepped out in front of the choir as they sang behind me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so nervous in my life, but I survived.
The big night arrived: Nov. 20, 1989. Much like the rest of the trip, the memories of that night are mostly a tableau, although a friend of mine reminded me that one of the singers fainted during the concert. “We were all like, ‘Don't lock your knees, rookie,’” she reminded me.
I don’t even remember "Missa Sancti Nicolai" all that much, even though I remember so many of the songs we did during my time in high school choir. But what mattered was that we were there; it was the culmination of all the preparation that went into one evening of music.
Thirty-five years later, I still keep up with a few of my fellow choir members from high school. One friend and her family are members of the same church as my family and me; we’re even leading worship together next week.
That trip affected me in a lot of ways. I grew tremendously in my confidence as a singer, I was able to shake my propensity for homesickness, and, of course, I became a Les Mis fan. More than anything else, I walked away with memories that I’ll cherish forever.
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