An NPM Convention Journal

This will be considerably longer and less polished than my usual but I’m not taking the time to do exhaustive revisions. I spent this week in Chicago at the NPM (pastoral music) convention, which was in Rosemont, out by O’Hare airport. Here are the scattered reflections of a week…

Day One: Sunday, July 5

12:38 p.m. I put Alex and Julianna in the car with hugs and kisses, drank in the feel of Christian’s arms around me, and swallowed my weepiness as I walked away from ¾ of my family. An hour later, I was preparing to leave with Justin and Laura when I realized that I didn’t have the diaper bag. After all the (rushed) careful planning, I still managed to leave something important behind.

But I have my flute and my NEO and Nicholas, and I am Chicago bound.

Day Two: Monday July 6th

Discovered more things I forgot/lost in transit from So. Illinois to Chicago.

Nicholas is the hit of the convention. And he’s showing new skills: grabbing hair, name tag, shirt…squealing at everyone who adores him—which is everyone…including a med student named Sung, Joe Mattingly, and Marty Haugen.

The main topic on everyone’s lips is the lack of economical food choices. I can’t help thinking that people who go to conventions tend to spend too much money because somebody else generally has to pay for it, and that’s why convention centers/hotels/restaurants without nearby competition get away with charging so much. I must shake my head, while I make do with a $5 muffin for breakfast.

Thought for the day: “Here in this life, all symphonies must remain unfinished.” Karl Rahner

10:00p.m., totally shot. Played from Times & Seasons (and three other works) at the GIA booth tonight with Kate Cuddy. Lots of fun. Diane Hennessy ran Nicholas around the exhibit hall on her scooter. He was crabby. This is my first convention attending as a composer; it’s refreshing to spend the whole day focused on that, rather than feeling obliged to attend things more directly applicable to being a liturgy director.

Day Three: Tuesday, July 7th

The air traffic pattern switched overnight, and when Nicholas woke me up at 6a.m., I heard the roar of jet liners taking off over the hotel. I had to call Alex to tell him about it. And I got a “walking in the woods” story about Thomas taking a dangerous curve, in the bargain.

Still finding things I’ve lost since Southern Illinois. I swear there’s a black hole somewhere in my suitcase.

8:00a.m. Today is T shirt day. I’m relieved to discover that I am not the only person who didn’t want to spend $15 for another T shirt I wouldn’t wear. I was afraid I’d be lime green flotsam in a sea of fire orange.

7:37p.m. I changed one dirty diaper during the plenum address (which was really good today), three during the GIA showcase, and another during the composers’ forum; fended off three major phlegm-y spitups before he finally nailed my shirt. But Nicholas was so happy and smiley all day (he is really hamming it up for everyone) that it wasn’t until dirty diapers number six and seven that I realized the kid is sick. Now I have to send my brother-in-law to Walgreen’s for more diapers, because it doesn’t look like I have enough to get me home on Friday. Ah, the adventure.

Ate lunch with WLP today. I sat at a table with editors, singers, composers and the owner. (I didn’t know there was one.) Ed Bolduc reminds me of my cousin Chris. I was the newbie in the room so I got introduced all around. It was a good lunch…the best meal I’ve had so far…and all the more enjoyable because I didn’t have to pay for it. Considering the $8 I spent on fruit and a danish this morning (no drink) and the $19 I spent for dinner (which was extremely ordinary), that’s no small perk.

This evening I’ve retreated to my room for some down time. Of course, I’m spending it working on a hymn text that’s been the bane of my existence since mid-January, when I woke up in the middle of the night with a tune and the first two words. Fleshing out that inspiration is a pain in the ***. Two years ago, I sent a text to WLP and got a great rejection, saying “We can’t use this, but send us more!” I groaned, b/c I knew how many months and sheets of paper I spent to get that text put together. Well, this one is even harder. The last one I finished. This one I think I’m going to have to abandon.

But coming to NPM is firing the composing neurons. I have three things in process now, one of them brand new today.

Sometime past midnight: I was supposed to go to a party given by GIA tonight. I was really looking forward to it. But when I found the place, I began seeing people walking toward it…dressed up. Now, NPM is a very casual convention. So it never occurred to me that this event might be anything other than casual. I have nothing remotely resembling dress clothes in my suitcase. Heck, I spend most of my life in my old slobby T shirts and too-big shorts, because I know I’m going to get spit up on. So for me, wearing nice casual shirts and only partially-stained shorts, with white socks and tennis shoes, is dressing up!

Needless to say, I didn’t go to the party. This convention is turning into quite an educational experience for me.  :)

Day Four: Wednesday, July 8th

Attended rehearsal for the WLP showcase this morning. It was a choir full of composers, and I found myself tongue-tied. Can you believe that? Me? Speechless? What’s up with that?

What’s up with it, I’m sorry to admit, is that I’m still starstruck. Over time I’ve progressed from making a complete idiot of myself any time I encounter a liturgical composer, to simply having nothing to say. Maybe now that the ice is broken, I can start to act like a normal human being and actually get to know these people, who are after all colleagues, not rock stars.

I guess I just have a horror of looking like the self-centered unpublished composer who’s trying to weasel her way in, and spends every moment ingratiating myself, trying to sink claws into someone and use them as a scratching post on the way up the ladder of publication. In other words, I want to talk about OTHER THINGS. Make friends. But all appearances to the contrary, I am essentially an introvert.

1:45 p.m., mid-OCP showcase. Nicholas sleeping peacefully through the joyful noise of contemporary song, until the first organ piece starts, and then his face twists up and he begins to whimper in his sleep. He-hehee. Do I have another drummer on my hands?

7p.m. Went outside my comfort zone today. I had the opportunity to mention another flute collection in progress to my editor, and I took it, and he told me to send it. Yessss! On the down side…plugged duct. Yech!

Thought for the day: “What you do daily, you can do dully, unless you do it deeply.” Abbot Gregory Polan, OSB.

Day Five: July 9

2:20p.m. What is it with my children and exploding diapers in downtown Chicago?

7:50 p.m., Orchestra Hall, downtown Chicago. I left Nicholas asleep on the shoulder of my new friend Monica and went downstairs to the bathroom. On the way, three people said, “I didn’t recognize you without your baby!”

This hall is spectacular, by the way. Can’t wait till next spring, when we come back to Chicago to celebrate our 10th anniversary.

9:45 p.m. Last week I had bad headaches several days in a row, so when I packed vitamins and beadryl (my emergency sleep aid) into a Gerber bowl for my trip, I dumped a bunch of Tylenol and ibuprofin in, too. I’m a walking pharmacy. ;) Fortunately I haven’t had to use most of it, but going downtown for nine hours, amid traffic and pollution, I decided to be cautious. Good thing, because I got a headache almost right away. But I had my trusty Tylenol gel caps. But after walking around downtown for two hours I was overcome by irresistible sleepiness. On the bus I conked out while we transitioned to Orchestra hall. I couldn’t figure it out… till I got back to the hotel and was taking my Lecithin, and I processed what I had actually picked up out of my bowl. Not acetamenophen, but Benadryl. Two of them. No wonder I couldn’t stay awake!

Day Six: Friday, July 10th

8:57a.m. I’m getting very good at spotting nooks and crannies where I can nurse without having to use the nursing cover, which we both detest. Today I found a cubby behind a wall labeled “phones,” but of course, there are no phones anymore.

Nicholas and I are both quite ready to be home.

 9:45a.m. Since I reflected on texts the other night, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’m putting *too many* restrictions on myself. There are hymn text writers out there who are spectacular at what they do; I am not one of them. I often brainstorm something and immediately say, “No,not that…no, not good enough…” Perhaps by trying to hold out for that kind of polish, I’m actually telling God “no.” Yesterday morning I had a flash of a new song. It was far too busy a day to take any time to sit in a quiet place and work, but it’s playing around in the back of my mind, and I’m trying not to impose such a stern filter. We’ll see how it goes.

This convention has been great for opening the creative floodgates. I have a ton of music to work on now. Yay God!

Thought for the day: “We are kin under the skin.” Msgr. Ray East.

5:05 p.m. I am not a good solo traveler.Christian is our caretaker in getting from point A to point B. I am OK getting around Lambert St. Louis because I’ve been there dozens of times. But I was very skittery about O’Hare today, from getting on the hotel shuttle, all the way through check-in and security (security is really intimidating!) and up till I arrived at the gate.

The line was really long, so I did self check, and then I went to the X ray machine for bags. I was very polite: “Is this the place where I drop off my bag?”

And the guy got snooty with me! “Do I LOOK like an agent?” he said. “You have to go over there!”

Well, fine, be that way. I guess most people who go through airports know what they’re doing, but still it seems to me that someone who is clueless, but polite, ought to be treated with courtesy.

Sitting in the back of the Mo-X bus…and it is very, very bouncy. Ugh, not looking forward to traversing I 70 here! But at least then we’ll be home.

The young guy in front of me just asked me, “How old is your baby, ma’am?”

Ma’am?

How nice, for him to be so respectful, but apparently I look older than I think I do! Have I ever mentioned that HS and college kids think I’m old, and adults think I’m a pup? This week people kept asking me if Nicholas was my only one: he must be, they said, because you’re far too young to have more.

Ummm…Okay. Thanks….I think?

Published in: on July 11, 2009 at 9:11 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Muscle That Is Exercised

Several years ago, a liturgical songwriter I admire made the comment that he hardly ever wrote any music anymore. This is a man whose gift with words, and his music in general, are really powerful, and it made me sad, wondering what caused his dry spell.

That was before Alex was born. At that time, I practiced flute a little, and I spent an hour a day writing music before I allowed myself to work on my novel. Inspiration struck at all times and in all forms, those days. I had to keep scratch paper, a pencil and a pen with me to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

Every child and every developmental stage increases the amount of attention and time that I spend mothering—which is as it should be. But the final result is that pieces of me that I once considered immovable have now been laid almost completely aside. Flute practicing, for instance. I play at church, and a little during lessons, but that’s about it these days. And writing music. I’ve spent so much time and energy on prose the last three years—because I’ve had obligations to meet, to editors and critique groups—that I’ve had to let the rest of it slide in order to meet my obligations as a wife and mother.

I miss playing flute. While I was warming up for a wedding a few weeks ago, I was horrified to discover that I could not play B to C# without hitting C natural in the middle. My pinchers simply refused to coordinate with each other. I must have sat there for fifteen minutes going back and forth, B-C#-B-C#, driving my husband and everyone in the wedding party, who were taking pictures, berserk.

Even more acutely, I miss writing music. As much as I love prose, writing music is still the most fulfilling part of my creative bug—the one that makes my heart swell and my throat constrict. But inspiration strikes rarely these days.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, and I realized: the creative muscle you exercise is the one that produces.

The solution, however, is not as simple as the problem would suggest.

The inspiration for prose comes from day to day life—from parenting three little ones, one with Down syndrome, and all the challenges and triumphs thereof. Musical inspiration, on the other hand, comes in the quiet, comes through a well-nourished reflective life, and there’s precious little that that when parenting little ones. And it’s not like I can just find quiet and poof, there’s music. Sometimes there are long, frustrating “quiet” periods in which I spend time but accomplish nothing. That doesn’t happen to me with prose, probably because I have so many projects underway at a time—but that assurance of productivity is why, with my limited time, I’ve focused my efforts there.

Once again, I’m navel-gazing. It might be a waste of time, except that I’m self-analyzing surrounded by a jungle gym covered with netting, foam wrappers and bungee cords…and approximately six gazillion kids, all screaming at the top of their lungs. So this is as good a use of time as any. Well…it might be better use of time to go climb around in the jungle gym with Alex. Hmm…

Hmmmmmmmmm….

Besides, while I was writing I came up with a strategy for spending some time at the piano this afternoon. So there!

Published in: on June 30, 2009 at 9:01 am  Leave a Comment  
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An Afternoon at the Missouri Theatre

Yesterday, I took Alex and Nicholas to a children’s concert by the Missouri Symphony Orchestra. It was a multimedia presentation of “The Planets,” which is one of my all-time favorite orchestral works, and the concert was at the Missouri Theatre. I’m trying to introduce the kids to classical music early enough that they take it for granted, so I look for these kinds of opportunities.

It was a pretty good concert, even for pops, and it was good to be back in the old hall now that they’ve finished the renovation. Between U. Phil and SWE, I spent a fair amount of time there in college—I even played the Griffes Poem (sorry, can’t link that one; all I can find quickly is the arrangement for fl/pno) on that stage—and I’ve always loved that theater. I used to imagine how it would look if they could replace the water-stained curtains and repair the crumbling plaster. Well, they did. I was afraid they would change everything, but basically the auditorium looks the same, just repaired. It’s a cool old building, and there’s much more to it than I ever realized, whole corridors that’ve been hiding behind walls for years. For those who’ve read Beggar’s Queen, you know I’m all about hidden passages. :)

But I digress.

They projected stars on the ceiling and started in the dark with the opening from Also Sprach Zarathustra, more popularly known as the 2001: Space Odyssey theme. The lights came up on stage slowly and then, on that final sunrise chord, burst into full power to reveal Kirk Trevor, the conductor…wearing a Star Trek: Next Gen uniform. Of course he turned around and introduced himself as “Captain Kirk.” Personally, I thought he looked more like Q.

Anyway, the Planets section was really enjoyable, with commentary between movements on the makeup of each planet. I didn’t know that Mercury is cooler than Venus, for instance, or that most of what we see of Jupiter is atmosphere. Alex just liked the pictures they projected on the screen. I think, though I’m not positive, that they did some cuts in the music. In other circumstances that would annoy me, but I had a 4 year old and a 3 month old with me, so that worked just fine.

Nicholas managed to sleep through Zarathustra but the first big moment in Mars, his whole body jerked, and his eyes popped open. He then spent the rest of the concert wiggling. At one point, he started guffawing—which is a supremely cute sound, but one that you really have to coax out of him, so you can imagine I was startled to hear it when I was focused on the stage. I pulled my head back and saw that he was staring up over my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw one of the theater staff women making googly eyes at him.

All in all, a good couple of hours, which I really needed, because I was in a really foul mood most of the weekend. Lack of sleep will do that to you.

Published in: on June 29, 2009 at 10:12 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Player Piano

When I was a little girl, my grandparents had a player piano in the basement of their split foyer on Epperson Street. We were far too small to run the foot pump, and Grandma was very particular about putting the rolls in herself, so the whole experience took on a mystique. I don’t remember a thing about the music itself—only that I thought watching the keys move on their own was the coolest thing ever.

When Grandma and Grandpa moved away, first to Kansas City and then to Detroit, the player piano departed my consciousness for twenty-five years. They must have had it, but I don’t remember seeing it again. After Grandpa died, Grandma moved back to the St. Louis area, but the piano was beyond salvation. She found a used one and had it fixed and moved into her condo.

I wrote music at that piano during the weeks I stayed with Grandma before Alex’s birth. Christian has practiced on it during three C-section stays. And yet for some reason, the fact that it’s a player just wasn’t in our consciousness until this weekend, when Grandma opened it up to entertain her great grandchildren. She sat on the bench with Alex at her side and Julianna on her lap and stuck in “Frosty the Snowman.” And suddenly this boisterous music boomed through the house.

By the end of the weekend, Alex knew everything there was to know about that player piano. He was running the foot pedals, flipping the lever to rewind the roll, and taking the rolls out himself. All we had to do was put the roll in and adjust the tempo.

Seven years of studying music gave me a whole new appreciation for what I was hearing. The rolls were recorded by one man, but they must have been done in two parts, because it was definitely a four-hand arrangement. So instead of sounding like a piano playing a song, it has the texture of an orchestra: bass, accompaniment, melody and obbligato. It’s a lot richer. We were listening to “Chim Chiminee,” and while the song goes on in the lower two thirds of the piano, the right hand takes off on this blisteringly fast set of cascading arpeggios. In the middle of “Take Me Out To the Ballgame” you get these ascending rolls—Chopin superimposed on a distinctly un-classical song. It was delightfully sophisticated. To the untrained ear it just sounds like good music, but unlike 95% of popular music now, the music was arranged to exercise the mind, not just be “ear candy.”

Don’t get me wrong, I like popular music. But it’s very rare to find pop music—country, rock, whatever—that delights the trained ear. Enjoyment lies in the words: word plays, puns, unexpected rhymes, beautiful poetry. But it was wonderful to listen to popular music that wakes up my musical brain.

It also occurred to me that without my children, I would never have had this experience. Adults don’t play. We have abig “stupid” filter on our brains, which prevents us from doing anything that makes us feel self-conscious. That filter frequently gets turned off when we’re with our kids—so we’ll spin a polka around the beer garden at Grant’s Farm, as long as we’re dancing with Julianna. But that filter tends to act upon things that aren’t embarrassing, too—things we classify as “waste of time.” That’s the only explanation I can come up with for ignoring the player piano for twenty years.

And of course, it wasn’t a waste of time at all. We had an unforgettable family experience, something special by which the kids will remember their great-Grandma…and that’s the best part of all.

Published in: on June 16, 2009 at 5:33 am  Comments (1)  
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The hospital is in E flat major

It’s odd that I don’t write much about music, considering that my degrees are in music and that music has been the focus of all my education, and the only activity in which I participated significantly, ever. Music defined my entire existence for about 7 years after high school.  

I always had a good sense of pitch, and before I graduated HS I could tell you what note was being played–as long as it was on the flute. Different notes have different tone qualities on the flute, and I knew what they were. C# is exceptionally fuzzy and bright, the B-flat tuning pitch is kind of shrill and whiny, that kind of thing. In college that developed into relative pitch. These days I have what I call “imperfect pitch” because I’m not 100%…but basically it’s learned perfect pitch. People who learn perfect pitch do so by learning to recognize the tone quality implicit in the pitch level, not just in one instrument but in general. That’s more or less what I do.

Anyway, I don’t talk about music much online, but it is implicit in my life. No doubt some of you will roll your eyes when I tell you that I’ve spent this PICU stay humming and identifying the pitches of the various alert bells.

Heart beep: E-flat
Monitor alarm: G
All clear: D

Poor little Julianna is restless today. I made them give her something to help her sleep this morning, because she was hurling herself around on the crib, incapable of settling down. The oxygen tube, the 5 or 6 joints coming off the IV on her neck, the various plastic tubes, kept getting stuck behind her back.  Even now, in her sleep, she tosses her head back and forth with tiny grunts. I got permission to hold her, but she didn’t tolerate that very long. It did help calm her down, at least. I tried to give her water but she wants nothing to do with it. I can’t help thinking she’s very weak and she needs some calories. That’s how I felt after Nicholas was born. They had me on fluids and sugar through the IV, but it’s not the same as eating and drinking. You never knew broth made from chicken bouillion could taste so good.

Anyway, that’s where we are this morning. If I get ambitious (and my children let me), I’ll write on a non-hospital subject later.

Published in: on May 9, 2009 at 10:27 am  Leave a Comment  
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Another busy one

It’s been another busy week–Christian’s been out of commission every night this week, so I’ve had the kids from rising to bedtime every day. That’s not 100% accurate, actually; I had respite care this week. But nonetheless, last night by the time Christian got home, I was about OD’d on single parenting. :/

The point is that although I have a number of great ideas for blog posts, I haven’t had time to write any of them. So I’ll move that up the priority list over the weekend, and in the meantime I realized that I never mentioned that WLP has recorded “I Rejoice” and has an excerpt linked on the “listen” tab at http://www.wlp.jspaluch.com/9124.htm. Hope you enjoy!

Published in: on May 1, 2009 at 10:39 am  Comments (3)  

Laying it on the line

Funny how these things snowball… A couple of months ago we were at the history museum in Forest Park when I heard, “Kate?” I turned around and who should I see but one of my college friends, with whom I’d completely lost contact. We exchanged email addresses and then she passed mine on to my college roommate (also long out of contact), who invited me to join Facebook.

For two weeks I did nothing but answer friend requests on Facebook. What, I wondered, have I gotten myself into? I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!!! Then,  much to my relief, it calmed down. :) But today I decided, on a whim, to do a search for high school classmates. And what do you know, there were three pages of them: People I’ve wondered about for years, people I liked, people I didn’t get along with so well, people I barely remembered.

I sent out a bunch of friend invites. Cringing, wondering what these people remember about me…wondering if they’re going to roll their eyes and say, “Oh, puh-leeze, I don’t want any kind of contact with HER!” (Clearly, adolescent insecurity only takes a vacation; it doesn’t go away altogether!)

Well, we shall see. But I’m really grateful (aha! Today’s Gratitude list!) for these forums for reconnecting. I missed both my 5 and 10 year reunions because of weddings, and I thought I was going to have to wait till the 25 year to find out anything at all.

***

Today’s a busy day, so I probably won’t get anything more posted, though I have a list of four to write…and actually, tomorrow is another St. Louis day…so let me just add that tonight is our last Mommy-Alex date before Baby (3 weeks, 2 days…but who’s counting?). We are going to see STOMP, which I have wanted to see for years. I’m very excited. 

Published in: on February 24, 2009 at 9:22 am  Comments (2)  

Reflections from a Jack-of-all Trades

Do you ever wonder how different your life might have turned out if you had made one decision differently? I do.

 

I chose my college based on what was familiar, what was near to home…what was safe. My music teachers often warned me what pursuing a performance career meant: a total commitment to putting that ahead of everything else. I heard it so often that I got irritated with them.

 

But I wonder now if they were so persistent because they knew I didn’t have what it took to succeed—the guts and determination to barrel through all obstacles like a car in a Hollywood chase scene, heedless of the destruction you leave behind. Long ago I came to the conviction that if great art requires sacrificing personal happiness and peace, I don’t want it. God didn’t create us to be tortured geniuses; he created us to be happy.

 

Classical music, liturgical music, composition, fiction, nonfiction…these are the talents, and the interests, God has given me. When I was younger, and unattached, I could focus on each creative pursuit in its own time. But getting married meant that all other priorities got pushed to second place. (That, unfortunately, took me a little while to learn.) When Alex came along, everything had to slip back another notch, and with the arrival of Julianna, with her special needs, everything dropped back a couple more notches.

 

Or did it? I’m writing very consistently now, but I hardly ever practice my flute; I’m writing virtually no music, and I often squirm with guilt that on a day to day basis I’m diluting the attention I give my children, who should be my top priority, after my husband.

 

And they are. When I have to, I drop everything else to cuddle a child with the stomach flu or a boo boo. And certainly writing time is planned around their schedules. But any time they’re awake and I’m sitting at the computer, I feel torn, guilty—just as I do about the lack of composing, the lack of flute practicing. There are too many balls to juggle. At any given time, a couple of them simply have to rest on the floor and wait their turn.

 

Do I regret not choosing one area of interest, grabbing hold and not letting go? No, I can’t regret that. I have a beautiful, exciting life, filled with cuddles and discipline, inspiration and deadlines, field trips and therapies. And I have a husband who is the best partner a woman could dream of. My life is balanced. If I’d had the backbone to make it in the performing world, I would have had to sacrifice other things. That may not be PC, but the world is what it is. I can’t help thinking that the sheer singlemindeness it takes to succeed is why so many famous people go through three, four or more marriages. Their career demands so much; it doesn’t leave enough to make a personal life work the way it’s supposed to.

 

So I will continue to juggle my “joyful duties” (I love that line from the hymn “O God Beyond All Praising”—such a succinct, and true, phrase) with the passions that define me. My family, my marriage, my responsibilities, will continue to inspire my writing, creating the intersection for which this blog is named. No, I will never balance it perfectly—considering this is the third or fourth post I’ve written on the subject, I’ll probably continue to expend emotional energy trying to keep all the balls whirling in harmony. But I do believe that this is the life I was called to live. And I thank God for it every day.

 

***

 

Something happened this week, and my blog hits went through the roof. I’ve scoured the stats, and for the life of me I can’t figure out what I did to cause it. Which makes me think I didn’t…I just got lucky. So, to all of you who follow this blog, I want to say thank you. It means a lot to me to have the opportunity to touch lives through what I write. That is what all writers ultimately want to do, the reason we spend such ridiculous amounts of time arranging and rearranging words on a page—so that the thoughts given to us can, perhaps, make a difference in someone else’s life. I’m honored that you take the time to come here and read.

Published in: on February 20, 2009 at 6:47 am  Comments (6)  

Singing the National Anthem

I’ve sung it for men’s and women’s basketball, for gymnastics and for baseball, but I’ve never had an experience like singing the national anthem from a 5-meter diving platform, in front of Olympic swimmers.

 

I got the email about a week ahead of time, and my first thought was, sure, why not? We had a wedding on Saturday (NOT ours), and we were planning to shop for couches and go to dinner for Valentine’s Day. The time dovetailed perfectly.

 

It was about three days ahead of time when Christian looked up from the sports section at dinner and said, “You know, this thing you’re singing for, it’s a really big deal, right?”

 

Uh…no…

 

Well, it’s big. The Grand Prix is a series of meets, and all the big names compete. Michael Phelps was missing this year, of course, but Katie Hoff was there and Ryan Lochte, among others. On the way down to the pool we walked past a really tall guy wearing a warmup suit that said “Israeli swim team.”

 

I’ve never stood on a diving platform before, let alone eight months pregnant. I’m not particularly afraid of heights, but I did have a moment’s vertigo when I first walked out to the edge of the platform suspended over a midnight-blue pool, which (I was informed by Ben, the event coordinator) is sixteen feet deep and painted darker than usual so that divers can keep their “up” straight from their “down” when they’re somersaulting in the air. I decided that good head for heights or no, caution is the better part of valor. I stopped about 2 feet from the edge. J I spent ten minutes watching these powerful swimmers stroke back and forth across the diving pool, warming up at speeds that looked very relaxed, until you got to thinking about it.

 

I can sing the national anthem in my sleep, but when it comes time to sing it solo in front of famous people, words have a way of vanishing—especially when they make no sense, as is the case with the national anthem. J I spent the entire ten minutes going over and over the troublesome phrases.

 

When it was over, Ben let us watch the first three races from the edge of the pool. It was really an incredible experience, to be poolside watching these swimmers compete. Definitely among the cooler experiences I’ve had as a musician. Christian and I stood three feet from the parade of athletes walking along the pool for the final heat, watching Katie Hoff bob her head, wearing her fur-lined boots, and slapping hands as she passed. We got to see the remote unit they use to start the races. We got a whole lesson in how things work behind the scenes—pools with movable bulkheads, strobe lights, coaches shouting instructions right next to us. Very cool stuff.

 

This is not particularly related to any of my usual topics—nor is it particularly well-written or insightful, I’m afraid…but it was just too interesting an experience not to share.

Published in: on February 16, 2009 at 3:13 pm  Comments (7)  

Speak Clearly!

The next time you’re talking to someone—anyone—pay attention. Not so much what they say, but how. It’s very illuminating.

 

I’ve always had an ear for language—an ability to pick out what language is being spoken, even if I can’t understand it. I attribute this to two things—one, exposure to lots of languages in the years I studied music; and two, having inherited a good ear from my dad.

 

Dad is the quintessential blend of traditional and modern farmer. He’s got the wardrobe, the farmer tan, a degree in agri-business, and something that struck me even when I was growing up: a large, sophisticated vocabulary sprinkled with questionable grammar. Some years ago, Christian told me that my dad had a thick accent. We argued about it all the way to my parents’ house one day. Christian was insistent, but I knew he was wrong.

 

Until that night at dinner, when I heard it, too. My jaw just about hit the floor. Just goes to show, everybody has a blind spot. (Or a “deaf” spot.)

 

In the years since, I’ve started conducting choirs and teaching voice lessons. These days, clarity of speech is something of an obsession with me. Some of the things I notice are regional mannerisms; others are just plain wrong. In the former category belong my father-in-law’s “sangwich,” and my brother-in-law, who says “I run” instead of iron. In the latter belong the scores of people who can’t say “escape” without turning it into “ex-cape,” for whom “nuclear” becomes “nuke-you-ler.”

 

Recently I heard Brooklyn native read a passage from the prophet Isaiah. It had the word “Lord” in it a dozen times. “L(u)wahd,” is how she pronounced it. This word is a great illustration, actually. Have a church choir sing the word “Lord” in unison, and you’ll hear this wretched scratching all around the sound—truly dreadful. It has nothing to do with sharp or flat; it has to do with what kind of “O” people are singing. There’s “Laaahd” and “Lohd” and the proper “Lord” and the overdone “LOWRd,” and that’s just the variety among Midwestern singers!

 

I’m losing you, I know it. Sorry.

 

Among my voice students, who range from 5 to 18, I’m constantly listening for clarity. Believe it or not, the worst offender is “s.” Humor me for a minute and say “ssssss.” Then try moving the tongue forward or back along the roof of the mouth. The farther forward you go, the clearer the “s.” The farther back, the closer it gets to “sh.” One of my pet peeves is hearing meteorologists say “thunder-shtorm.” What’s up with THAT?

 

Then, of course, there’s Alex, who over-pronounces his “r’s” such that every day I hear, “Away in a mangeRRRRR, no crib for a bed, the wittuh woRRRd Jesus waid daaaowwwwn his sweet head.”

 

Clarity of speech is achieved by opening the mouth. It sounds inane, I know—but in speech, we don’t move our mouths much. Opening the mouth has implications not only for singing, but also for elocution. How many times did your teachers yell, “Project! Project!” There are two keys to projection and clarity—one is using enough stomach muscle (thank you Angeleita!); the other is letting the lips come forward in a relaxed position, slightly pursed (thank you Melissa!), and then allowing them to shape the words, instead of letting the words bumble past without moving them much.

 

The point of this entry, if anyone’s actually made it this far, is to show that I’m a complete geek. J Excuse me—I mean, to share a perspective that I’ve gained, and to encourage everyone to pay attention to how you talk, and strive for clarity. If nothing else, maybe that will help people understand each other when they’re talking on cell phones!

Published in: on January 8, 2009 at 6:10 pm  Leave a Comment  
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