Waiting for Gergiev

Like the amateur theater company in Waiting for Guffman, we slogged through a winter of discontent, preparing Soviet Music for a spring concert to be conducted by Maestro Valery Gergiev. Universally we were disappointed with Shostakovich. It is heavy handed when seen in its most flattering light. We struggled with the Russian text. As singers we are familiar with Latin and German. Russian is relatively unfamiliar, although we had done it last year. Our previous experience did not prepare us for our encounter with modern Russian. After all, last year we performed two chants in which the language was pretty simple.

Linguistics is a fascinating field. Why is there such a stark difference in pronunciation - the way in which sound is formed? Dunno. I slept through that lecture. We have now encountered the letter L in several permutations: the almost liquid Russian sound in the back of the throat; the German sound that is almost on the tip of the tongue; and the English letter that bounces squarely off the roof of the mouth. No question: if you do it wrong it does not sound like the right language.

A large part of this assignment was trying to get a handle on the Russian sound. We had great help: tapes from the language coach of the Metropolitan Opera and a huge effort from one of our members and the director. We were directed to memorize the work. Not being a savant, it was tough going to get the odd sounds into my head, let alone my mouth. Happily, by the time of the concert it was there.

We spent more than two months preparing for essentially 15 minutes of music. It took every bit of that time for me to be comfortable with it. I clattered some of those syllables like dropped dinnerware, and it took till the very end to get them in place. The music was secondary. There was nothing subtle about it, although as we went along the beauty of the work began to reveal itself. Having been braced to dislike it, it was a great relief to find moments of inspiration.

We braced ourselves for a rehearsal with Gergiev. After so many weeks of practice, there was confidence that we would not screw up but we did not know if the Maestro would like what he heard.
When we sang Mahler's 2nd Symphony last year, we had an encounter with him. After all, ten minutes cannot be called a rehearsal. He listened to us run through our part and approved. With barely a comment he thanked us and dismissed us. We were prepared for a similar experience this time. It was encouraging that, when he heard us, he did not immediately close his book and head for the door. Finally! The guidance of the master. "Sing marcato (march-like, brisk, pointed) - like a sword." He commented that we would probably not be audible over the brass section. We retooled our legato phrasing into war-like grunts, easier to hear over the battery of percussion and the heavy brass corps. This rehearsal, covering two pieces, lasted nearly 45 minutes. A marathon.

Our group of adult choristers had been joined by a few professionals and the elite college choir also led by our director. After the Maestro departed, we were chided by our director. "There is a culture of procrastination," he intoned, comparing us unfavorably to the youth corps and mercenaries. He seems to forget that we are a volunteer army. Some of us were late getting to rehearsal. Infuriating but most of us were there, and the stragglers had good reason no doubt. Nevertheless, the rehearsal went very well, and we left feeling that we were ready for the performance.

Who are we? We are capable of performing at professional caliber but only some of us are professional singers. We are teachers, scientists, scholars, professionals and just folks, united in a love of music and the ability to bring voice to it. We bring enthusiasm to our task, a great desire to do it well, despite lacking the natural gifts of outstanding performers. The fellow to my right explained it this way. "I was a musician in high school - good but never the best. Now I have sung here many times, and it has fulfilled my expectations. I have played a secondary role, which after all is what I should play." So do we all but the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Most of us arrived at the Great Hall on time, early even, and prepared for the run-through, followed shortly after by the performance. We trooped up the backstairs on to the stage in our concert regalia, only to find orchestra and conductor in mufti. We waited for our big entrance, foreshadowed by crashing drums and a factory horn, then sang away for a solid ten or so minutes. We retreated back to the Choir Warren, a room too small for the numbers, without adequate seating or ventilation but oddly equipped with stove and microwave.

An hour later we took the stage and gave a very good rendition of the work. The Maestro, the orchestra, the crowd and our director all seemed pleased by the effort. We withdrew again, changed out of formal wear and dispersed into the overcast city. Not bad for a culture of procrastinators.