Awake, my soul, and sing

“I dreamed a dream,” writes composer Joseph Martin in his dramatic choral work The Awakening, “of a land where no bird sang, no steeples rang, and teardrops fell like rain.”

When Martin was commissioned to write an anthem for the 20th anniversary of the Texas Choral Directors Association, he responded with The Awakening. Written in 1995, the piece was inspired by Martin’s music teacher in junior high school, Doris Clark, who was brutally murdered in her choir room during Martin’s final high school year.

Martin has described The Awakening as a journey back to joy, following the hatred and violence of “that awful time” – his testament to the power of music to heal.

It’s a long way from a violent American adolescence to the peaceful chapel of a Masterton funeral home, where the Wairarapa Singers hold their weekly rehearsal. But that’s where I first met The Awakening early this year.

I had wanted to join the choir for some time. When I first moved to the Wairarapa and lived in Featherston, I sang with the Martinborough Choir. Initially, it went well. Like most choirs, it was a welcoming and joyous group. But then, Covid hit. Martinborough is a town packed with retirees, and post-Covid, the retired medical professionals in the choir flexed their aging muscles. Nek minnit, an email from the choir director. From now on, we would all be sitting in socially distanced seats at rehearsal and wearing masks while we sang. I was having none of it, and resigned.

I shopped around for an alternative. By then, we had moved to Masterton, where the Wairarapa Singers, I read on their web site, met once a week on a Wednesday evening. They described themselves as “one of the finest choirs in the region” with the aim of “making the best music we possibly can”. That sounded like a bit of me.   

Although the choir is non-auditioned, getting in wasn’t as easy as pie.

“We have a waitlist,” the president said in his reply to my email, “as we like to keep the balance of parts relatively even”. I understood the problem. Choirs always have more women than men. Finally, months later: “It’s our 30th anniversary next year, and you are very welcome to join.”

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No alleluia, not one hosanna, no song of love, no lullaby ….

No choir sang to change the world, no pipers played, no dancers twirled.

The Awakening reminds me of a Trojan horse. Its opening does a good job of convincing you that what you’re about to hear is little more than a very sad song. It begins quietly with a two-note minor chord, followed by a delicate sprinkling of high notes that convey a sense of grief and yearning, even helplessness. It's a dream sequence where there is only silence and despair; no singing birds or ringing steeples; a land “so filled with pride that ev’ry song, both weak and strong, withered and died”.

For me, this last line strikes the only incongruous note in the piece, conveying the idea that in order to appreciate and value music, one must be humble rather than proud. My own experience of performing music in a land like New Zealand that is obsessed with outdoor activities (Read: sport) is that in order to sing or perform or even say, “I love music – and not just pop music, people” one must be as proud as punch rather than humble. Society is changing, of course, but when it comes to singing – the act of standing up in front of a crowd, opening your mouth, and emitting notes that you hope to God are correct – humility is not really the name of the game. Confidence is.

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New Zealand has lots of choirs. Some are auditioned, others are not. Some require you to read music, others do not. Some have strict rules about attendance, uniforms and even – I discovered when I gave barbershop singing a go – the specific shade of lipstick you must wear at performances.

One thing all choirs have in common is the potential for drama. I am sometimes reminded of the scene in the movie Bohemian Rhapsody  when, in the middle of an argument between Freddie, Roger and Brian, John Deakin begins to quietly play the riff he’s written for “Another One Bites the Dust”. They stop arguing, listen and agree that it’s really quite good. “It will be,” he replies, “if you can all just shut up and play.”

Choirs are usually at their best when everyone just shuts up and sings, rather than worrying about whether the room is too hot or too cold, whether they are standing next to the people they want to stand next to, whether the choir director is making the right decisions about anything at all, whether they like the uniform they have to wear at the next concert, or whether they even like the music they are singing.

If you decide to join a choir, my advice is to put all of your energy into being the best singer you can possibly be. If those around you are consumed by the various types of dramas I have described above, simply smile and nod politely, make sympathetic noises, and then go back to focusing on the music. It will be infinitely more calming and rewarding.

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Awake, awake, awake, awake,

Soli deo Gloria!

The middle section of “The Awakening” offers a note of hope. It mostly consists of one word: Awake.

The singular, playful notes of its opening bring to mind images of nature – a thawing frost, perhaps, with drops of cold water reaching a delighted child’s nose, and the first buds of spring opening. But here comes that Trojan horse again. As the four parts of the choir echo each other with their imploring, “Awake, awake”, the sound gradually builds and builds to the final rousing, “Awake, A-WAKE!” Everyone singing at full bore, leaving nothing on the field.  

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Awake, awake, my soul and sing

The time for praise has come

The silence of the night has passed

A new day has begun

What I really like about singing is, you don’t need to buy an instrument. I’ve learned to play five musical instruments over the years – the piano, violin, guitar, clarinet and recorder. (Does the recorder count? A friend who has made a career about of being a classical recordist would argue that of course it does.) All musical instruments are expensive. But singing? A voice box costs you nothing, except a little bit of courage.

At the charity shop where I work, the radio is usually playing a station that focuses on the hits of the ‘60s and ‘70s. I frequently find myself singing along to the songs they play, and so do our customers.

“Sorry,” a woman said the other day when I caught her mid-stream.

“Don’t apologise,” I reassured her. “It’s nice to hear people singing.”

“Some people,” she replied, in that classic Kiwi self-effacing manner designed to convey the message that some singers might be nice to listen to, but she was not.

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How to explain the feeling when those notes of music start in your belly, rise up through the diaphragm, the chest, the throat and finally, out through your mouth? The music absorbs you, and you absorb it. Your energy, your life force carries those notes to the listening audience. You breathe, take in oxygen, expel carbon dioxide, and keep singing. It’s that simple, and that rich.

Let music never die in me

Forever let my spirit sing

Wherever emptiness is found

Let there be joy and glorious sound

Awake, awake, let music live

Let music live!

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There’s no choir practice for the next two months. How will I cope?