This past Sunday we had our first rehearsal for the Southwest Area Lutheran Chorale, or swalc as I like to call it. It went pretty well, but I’ve no doubt my directing style was a bit of a shock to the new comers. Unlike most church choir directors, I try not to take too much time hammering out individual parts. I like to jump right in and focus on technique as soon as possible. I learned this from a certain person we shall call “Mr. B.”
Mr. B directs the church choir where I am currently a member. Through the years I’ve sung in many church choirs, most of which had very small and (no offense) weak choirs with directors whose main goal was to get through a piece from start to finish without losing anyone along the way.
Then we moved to New Ulm – the hub of the Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod. New Ulm has two very large WELS churches, a WELS grade school, a WELS High School, and is also the home to our WELS college of ministry. Consequently, this town is populated in large part by professors, teachers, and preachers as well as a great many children of professors, teachers, and preachers.
It didn’t take me long to see that the ethical, intellectual, and musical standard here is far higher than anywhere else I have ever lived. I’m not bragging. I’m just telling it as I see it. New Ulm people are amazingly talented.
Nowhere was this more evident to me than in the church choir. On Christmas morning, for example, our choir opened the service with an acapella offering of Bach’s Break Forth O Beauteous Heavenly Light. It was done beautifully, in perfect pitch and with the appropriate phrasing, dynamics, and tone. And we only practiced it once – once! But my story happened a few months before that. My story took place during my first three practices in Mr. B’s choir.
Practice Number One – Getting to Know Mr. B.
The first thing I noticed in Practice Number One is that Mr. B doesn’t have an accompanist. Not for rehearsals anyway. He turns the piano so it’s no more than three feet away from the front row of the choir, and directs from there, peering at us over the top of his music. The second thing I noticed is that Mr. B is a very passionate person. You don’t just sing songs when you’re in Mr. B’s choir. You tell the story of your faith. He’s not afraid to tell you what the words mean to him, and encourages his choir to think about the meaning behind the words they are singing.
So far, I was loving this choir. I enjoyed moving from piece to piece, basically sight-reading our way through the fall selections. But when we came to a section I was having trouble with, I didn’t dare raise my hand to ask for help. No one else was asking to have their part played. I certainly wasn’t going to be the first.
When the rehearsal ended, and we all began to disperse, I was eager to talk to someone and share my first impressions. The only person I really knew well enough was Connie. “That was amazing!” I told her as we exited the building. “This is so different than what I’m used to.” Then I told her about my hesitation to ask to have a part played.
“Oh, no,” Connie told me. “You can ask him to play a part. That’s no problem.”
I wondered.
Practice Number Two – Request Denied
Practice Number Two was a lot like Practice Number One. We went through one song after the other, never bothering to take any parts individually. And then, who should raise her hand, but my friend Connie. “Could you play the alto line on the top of page 3?” Connie asked. “I’m having a little trouble with that part.”
And what do you think Mr. B did?
He paused for just a moment and then said, “Nah. You’ll get it,” and continued on with practice. It was all I could do to keep from jumping up and shouting, “I told you!”
But that’s not the end of my story. There’s more.
Practice Number Three – The Apology
By Practice Number Three I felt I was pretty well used to this choir and its passionate director. I didn’t expect any more major surprises. But I was wrong. About five minutes into our third rehearsal Mr. B stopped to make this unexpected statement: “Last week Connie asked to hear her part, and I didn’t do it. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I just knew that she’d get it eventually. And she did.”
I often wondered if Connie talked to Mr. B between Practice Number Two and Practice Number Three. All I know is Mr. B played parts more frequently after that. But I understand where he was coming from. Mr. B had every confidence in his choir and their abilities. He knew they were fully capable of learning their parts and trusted them to do so. It’s not a bad attitude for a choir director to take.
And now, five years later, I guess I’m sort of the same way. But I’ll make no apologies. Pounding out parts is no fun. Not for the voice that’s going through it, and certainly not for everyone else in the choir. And with an above-average choir, like my beloved swalc, it’s just not always necessary. You people can read music. You’ll get it.
That’s my philosophy anyway. And I know at least one other director agrees with me.
Still, I don’t take it quite to the extreme that Mr. B did in those first three practices. I’ll certainly play parts if someone asks to hear them. It’s only right. But I wonder what it would be like, if one day someone asked to hear their part, and I would do like Mr. B… pause for a moment and say, “Nah. You’ll get it!” just to see what would happen. No, I’d better not. I think the choir likes me. I’d like to keep it that way.
