Choral Music for the Modestly Gifted, or Why a Pencil Sharpener is a Great Substitute for Genius

There is much to be learned of human nature in that fascinating activity known as choral singing, isn’t there? Earlier this fall I decided to audition for a large chorus group in the D.C. area, and after sweating through the audition (a process which I passionately dislike) and frightfully blowing the sight-reading section of aforementioned interview, I found to my relief that they were going to let me in after all.  I breathed a big sigh of relief, checked to see that I had the right edition of the Verdi score, and made my way to the first rehearsal.

Now it appears that choral singing produces a significant number of highly gifted people in this world. This simply must be the case, because in every group (or in every voice category of larger groups) there is one, or two, or three singer(s) who simply can do no wrong and who have it musically, textually, historically, and philosophically all together. This we know because of their frequent pronouncements to this effect.

This can have a chilling impact on those of us with modest gifts who are simply trying to 1) make the appropriate musical noises at the rhythmically-correct moments, and 2) keep from wildly embarrassing our particular section with notes not found within an octave of the score itself.  In fact, the modestly gifted among us can find that the constant distraction of the proclamations of the wildly gifted among us can significantly lower our baseline performance level.

Now this is where the modestly gifted among us (aka me) produce our secret weapon: the pencil sharpener. I have found that in such cases where I clearly lack genius, the ability to write down whatever the Maestro, or the professor, or the boss happen to want in any given situation goes a long, long way toward making up for one’s inherent lack of genius on such matters. I have also found that the sharper the pencil, the faster and more clearly I can scribble. Hence, my acquisition of a good pencil sharpener significantly increases the appearance of, if not genius, then at least good intelligence on my part. And as I find it is often helpful to project at least the appearance of competence, a pencil sharpener is now a semi-permanent resident of my music folder.

But sometimes it is difficult, if not downright impossible, for my modest pencil-that-substitutes-for-genius to co-exist happily with the wildly gifted among us who do not need pencils at all, let alone pencil sharpeners. A case in point: in our most recent rehearsal, the Maestro informed us (among many other things) that he wanted the sopranos to sing pianissimo in a portion of the Sanctus section of Verdi’s Requiem. We are to sing this section like the angels floating above, he informed us.

Can do. I grabbed my trusty pencil and began making my usual incomprehensible-to-all-others score scribbles. As I did so, however, my humble pencil had to fight for air space next to the wildly gesticulating hand gestures of a nearby soprano, who was proclaiming to my entire row (but ostensibly just to her friend the next chair over) how sympatico she was with the Maestro. Pointing him out (I’m not sure that any of us had much trouble seeing him, as he does indeed stand in front of us on a podium, but I digress), she reiterated how amazing it was that she was already of one mind with the Maestro, and that everything he was asking us to do, she was already doing. They had, she breathed, the same mind.

This went on for the entire rehearsal, much to the suffering of those of us who apparently cannot mind-read the brilliant brain of the Maestro and must instead depend on his spoken words in order to carry out his wishes. It seemed that every suggestion/command that the conductor made to the soprano section was greeted with an ominously intoned “I am already doing that” from our muy sympatico soprano. Even a properly-sharpened pencil that flew its marking self repeatedly across the score pages at the attempted speed of light could scarcely manage to function at times underneath all the “sympaticoness” proclamations.  Of course, as an apparently clearly antipatico (with the Maestro, at least) and under-geniused soprano myself, I would clearly be unable to process, let alone absorb, all this musical wonderfulness. (As I said, the pencil substitutes for much in my world.)

On behalf of my overworked and auditorily overwhelmed pencil, then, I’d like to offer a few humble suggestions to my sympatico musical betters: it might be an idea to simply allow your musical fabulousness to speak for itself as opposed to your verbally championing it so frequently. It’s amazing how much one’s excellence will quietly stand out over time in a choral setting without a word being spoken…extraordinary, isn’t it? Trust your musical excellence to speak for itself…(for this my pencil thanks you).

Next: remember that there are quite a few of us who are far below your vast attainment of excellence, and anything you can do in order to assist us in our urgent scribbling of the conductor’s instructions so that we have at least a synthetic form of genius with which to work would be so greatly appreciated. A very large hint: this might involve not making extended speeches about your astonishing musicality and mind-reading intuition to us modestly gifted ones as we frantically jot instructions as fast as we can. For those of you in the rarefied heights of musicality who no longer even need to think about pencils, let alone bring one to rehearsal, remember that even your genius might be benefited by being patient with those far below you on the totem pole of talent. If nothing else, this will help us to attain greater excellence so that we can support your superstar status in even more ways than we are currently able to do…and this is a win/win situation for everyone!

Lastly, do try to express yourself (if possible, as I know that genius simply can’t be restrained at times) with as little hand- and arm-flailing as possible–when my poor pencil is smacked around by objects flying through the air, it can no longer substitute for my lack of genius. Respect my pencil, and your wildly gifted musicality and innate genius will appear in an even more stellar light than it already does.

And now, does anybody need a good pencil sharpener? Because I’ve got one handy…