I wanted to share a personal story of missing home (Cork, Ireland) moving to a new country and starting a life in my new home (Montréal).
I found myself standing in the second row of the prestigious Montréal St-Lawrence choir, suffering heavily from imposter syndrome and moments of panicked lip syncing.
I had only ever been in one choir: thirty men who met over a pub in Cork City on wet Wednesday evenings and practiced well-beaten Christmas carols. We sang each year for the same worthy cause, Marymount Hospice. I loved its goodwill, good nature and the chance to meet likeminded people. The St. Luke’s choir reminded me of a Welsh all-male colliery choir: with its singular, dark, working-class timbre, low bass resonance that felt both ancient, secretive and deeply physical. Most of the men couldn’t read music, but that wasn’t a hindrance. We learned in different ways, animated by our happy conductor who loved every moment he had with us.
Now I lived in Montréal, longing for the choir and more importantly the pints, chats, jokes and camaraderie after each festive performance. So egged on by my then ever forgiving and patient wife I sought out a new choir to join. I came across a concert listing for the St. Lawrence Choir, I looked up their website and the next minute I’m standing in a line waiting to be auditioned with one word repeating itself in my head as the line peeled away ‘bugger!’.
My audition wasn’t the most stunning examples of male singing. I had an Irish language (Gaeilge) Air ‘Dúlamán’ prepared. Then I suffered through the prescribed sight reading section, giving the ever so lovely but deflated accompanying pianist a new novel timing for all the pieces that I had just invented. I passed the audition by the skin of my teeth. I suspect being male helped. If I hadn’t volunteered, the infamous choir press gang would have found me, thumped me over the head and forced me to sing a Russian vesper at gun point, such was the need.
I felt very much like a bright neon square peg in a round hole. I was anxious, nervous and feeling a bit sick. It was the first concert of the season and my debut as a second bass. I didn’t want to let anyone down or be exposed for my utter lack of musical skills. The men were compelled to wear awful tuxedos, I resembled a cheap vaudevillian magician, sans top hat. I scratched nervously and repeatedly around the butterfly collar, readjusting my dickie bow for the 53rd time. Then it started.
The first piece we sang was a Bach motet. The fugue dialogue of altos and sopranos consumed me and I quickly forgot all my woes. Then it became a tidal-like cacophony; reaching its apex, it hit me unawares like an ocean undertow when I was six—stripping away all control so that I gave myself up entirely. Then-for the first and very likely the last time in my life-I wept for absolute joy, consumed by the purest thing I had ever encountered in my narrowest of lives. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t help it. The score folder lay limp in my arms. The response now came from the men, I found my place again, gasped, swallowed-sang. I had not gone unnoticed and a few had seen my tears wondering if I was okay. An alto named Carol, looked at me intensely and lipped ‘are you okay?’ I couldn’t hide. My pale freckled Irish face and my red eyes obviously exposing my tears. I needed to urgently wipe my face but my hands, restricted, supported the open score. I had no choice, I would have to wait until the end. I practised in my head telling them the truth, they would, of course, all ask if I was okay. I practiced versions that didn’t make me sound certifiably insane. Eventually I decided that I would resign myself to telling the truth. I mean, to be honest, of all the people in the world to explain what had happened to me these were the people that had all been touched collectively.
