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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2020-10-24 15:50:04 -07:00
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writing/sonata/when-we-sang.md
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@ -18,4 +18,16 @@ The next day, you are the last choir to hit the stage, and you will close out th
And yet you know you have this.
And so you get up the next morning and you and your choir miss the first performance and lecture of the day solely to practice once more, and then you hear the second-to-last choir from behind the acoustic shell
And so you get up the next morning and you and your choir miss the first performance and lecture of the day solely to practice once more, and then you hear the second-to-last choir from behind the acoustic shell, and then you file out on stage and begin to sing.
You begin with the Debussy, which is fine. It's fine. You enjoy that bit in the middle of the first song, the *Par de ça, ne de là, la mer* part where you sink beneath the waves kind of like in "La cathédrale englutie", but the rest of the three songs is take it or leave it.
Still, there you are, you and your choir, standing now an inch above the risers, with enough space between your feet and the carpeted stands to slide your music folders, if you had them.
And you don't, because those hours and hours of practice have paid off and you've got it all memorized. You could sing this music in your sleep. You almost certainly have. And so you transition smoothly into the little nothing piece that is the Stroope, and that's fine because this is technically a conference for choral conductors who do expect to hear some of the standards that are making their way through the choir world these days. You heard it sang at All-State and it was fine. It's fine.
But then you hit them with a quick one-two-three. You hit them with the Kernis, where the virtuosity is in the rapidly alternating notes evoking the feeling of whirling, and you can feel the air pick up on it. You can feel the breeze start. You can sense the circular momentum of the air building up around you. It's hardly cyclonic. Just enough of a breeze to prick the ears and tease the hair, maybe, but no more.
And then you hit them with the Walton, those clashing, jarring chords and obsessively precise rhythms drawing them forward. It's dissonant, discordant, but in the frenetically organized way that modern music is. Virtuosity of a different sort, praising brother sun, sister moon.