Why Do We Do It?

I made the Tanglewood Festival Chorus roster for an upcoming small concert run.  It’s a little known piano concerto by Ferrucio Busoni that has an all male chorus.  It’s no surprise I made the roster, because they literally accepted anyone who said they were available and wanted to do it.  And as I studied the piece over February break in Florida, I could see why they didn’t have a lot of takers:

  • The chorus sings only in the last 8-10 minutes of a 70 minute piece.
  • The piece is rarely performed, because the piano solo is very hard, the orchestra is huge, and it’s hard to get together a chorus just for that last little bit.
  • The piece is not particularly loved or critically acclaimed.  It’s tonal, at least, but certainly not as remarkable as other choral works.
  • Our rehearsal schedule involves four trips into town before two daytime orchestra rehearsals and a Friday afternoon concert, meaning lots of work and home schedule disruption.
  • Each trip is 1-2 hours of rehearsal, for about four minutes of singing.  So not counting travel time, we’ll basically average more than an hour of prep for each minute, before the orchestra.
  • One of the composer’s goals was for the chorus to be almost invisible, just another texture added to the orchestra.  In fact, usually they’re an off-stage chorus.

Pretty bleak, eh?  Those were the thoughts rumbling in my head as I traveled to the very first rehearsal upon returning from vacation.  Why do I do concerts like this?  Why do any of us do it?

Over the course of those three rehearsal and tonight’s piano rehearsal with Maestro Oramo, I’ve reflected on the answers to that question…  because, wow, there are a lot of them.  Why do we do it?  Because:

  • The piece actually is very beautiful.  (You can hear the part we sing in on YouTube here.)
  • All men’s choruses are fun.  Especially when we get to sing hashed so we can truly blend with each other.
  • I get free voice lessons and German diction lessons from musicians Who Know This Sort Of Thing.
  • I’m an extrovert who loves being on a stage, and who loves being around people I don’t see as often.
  • I love any activity that involves a group of people working together to achieve something they couldn’t achieve individually.
  • It’s yet another opportunity to be in “flow” when you know the music so well that you are completely in the zone, immersed in everything around you, enraptured.
  • Everyone else at these rehearsals wants to be here too.  There’s no glamour in being in this piece.  So everyone in the chorus wants to make great music.
  • For that victorious moment at the rehearsal with the conductor, where he looks up after about 30 minutes of work and, slightly stunned, says, “Actually I…. I’m really, really happy with this,” and dismisses you early.

Ultimately, though, the answer is this: Music is my religion.  The chorus room is my church.  And the concert hall stage is my cathedral.  I’ll take advantage of every opportunity to worship that I can.

Learning to Accept

When I was young and had just started exploring classical music, I had a tape of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons that I played to within an inch of its life.  I loved the word painting and rollicking cadenzas, the cheerful harpsichord that put the movement in the movements, and the contrasts in tempo and tone from one season to another.  Recently, remembering how much I loved that recording, I went to get a more modern equivalent from iTunes.

I couldn’t — wouldn’t — buy one.

I listened to excerpts and all of them were different.  This one was too fast; this one was draggy.  Another version’s okay, except the violin is doing something crazy that I don’t recognize.  The harpsichord isn’t even playing arpeggios in this one.  I didn’t realize how much of that work is left up to the interpretation of the conductor and the soloist and the continuo.  I couldn’t accept that my version was not the version — even if it was the version for me.  Until I accept another interpretation — or figure out where that tape came from — I may never buy a recording!

Which brings us to the Tanglewood concert that my wife and I are participating in next weekend, where we’ll be singing Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe, and the popular Carmina Burana by Orff.  (You know Carmina, even if you think you don’t… it’s everywhere. )  The Ravel isn’t an issue for me, because it’s the first time I’ve ever sung it, let alone memorized our small contribution, so I have had no preconceived notions… just a fear of knowing when to ahhh and when to ohhh, whether a 5/4 measure is next, and how long the rest is before our next entrance.

Carmina Burana, however, is a problem.

I’ve performed Carmina Burana in four concert runs now, twice from memory.  Some chorus members have many more.  My wife and I even have our favorite version — the time we both sang with Rafael Frübeck de Burgos at Symphony Hall.  “FdB” has a very specific vision for the piece which we embraced.  He really distinguishes his version, thanks in part to some quirky tempo changes — for instance, how he asks the chorus to almost ashamedly gossip-sing about the “errant brethren” and “dispersed monks” while In Taberna, or the sudden switch to double-time to create the “bursting out all over” lover’s fast heartbeat in Tempus es iocundum.  He truly gives it that bawdy, irreverent character that it needs.  I have a recording of that performance, and it’s my gold standard for the piece.

And that … that makes this particular performance much harder.  Now we’re singing it with a new conductor, whom we’ll meet next week.  And, we’ve been prepared by Betsy Burleigh, one of the chorus directors auditioning to replace John Oliver after his retirement last year.  Betsy’s intensity contrasts dramatically with John’s more laissez-faire style, and that’s been an adjustment for the entire chorus.  My “aha” observation is that in rehearsals, our chorus likes to learn, but doesn’t like to be taught.  John concerned himself more with the character and tone of our singing, and figured we’d work out most of the details on our own or with the conductor.  (He also generally hates Carmina Burana for its bombast and general lack of subtlety.)  Betsy prefers to establish an agreed-upon baseline landscape of diction and rhythm.  Once we have consensus on those boundaries as a chorus, we can then maneuver however the conductor wants to shape the piece.  Adding to the cognitive dissonance: since Carmina Burana is a weird mixture of Latin and German, there’s debate for each performance on whether a word like “quod” is pronounced /kwohd/ or /kvot/.  Betsy delivered a comprehensive and internally consistent pronunciation guide, but it disagrees with what most of us have previously memorized. So she’s had to deprogram us from old habits with some very detailed drilling.

Frankly, we could probably use the drilling, because that uniformity of sound and diction hasn’t really been a hallmark of our chorus over the last decade.  I can’t remember the last time we took a piece apart this thoroughly and then reassembled it.  We held five pre-residency rehearsals instead of the usual two or three – and we’re not even technically memorizing for this performance.  Sure there’s been grumbling, but by the final rehearsal we sounded so much better than the initial one, that I think it was worth it.  Betsy challenged us not to mail it in.  Once we learn to accept that, and accept her, and accept that there’s no John or FdB here, and accept that the chorus is transforming into something new…  then we can return to inspiring a picnic-crowded lawn.

In the end, I’m looking forward to the opportunity to sing the praises of fate, lust, springtime, and drinking heavily… regardless of whether I successfully shake off the instinct to rhyme crescis and dissolubilis with the English word “peace” instead of “hiss.”  We’ve been here before: that jarring cognitive dissonance when faced with a new interpretation happens every time.  And we’ve had guest chorus conductors shake us out of complacency for the Brahms Requiem, and we’ve had conductors take us for wild spins too.  Learning to accept is hard.  Leadership changes are hard.  But complacency won’t get us to the sort of memorable performance that makes me save a tape for decades.

The Promise of Singing

On Friday, John Oliver conducted his final prelude concert as the leader of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus before his retirement.  The next to last piece on the program, Copland’s “The Promise of Living,” was the perfect tear-jerking valediction that pretty much summed up our time with John over the last 45+ years.

John-Oliver-final-preludeThe piece itself, if you’re not familiar with it, is a song of thanksgiving.  It speaks to the promise that every community can be strengthened through the love of its neighbors.  The text suggests that our raison d’être for living, growing, and ultimately ending our time in this world is “labor and sharing and loving.”  Its message is that we can best show our thanks to the Lord by lending a hand, working with our friends in the fields to “bring in the harvest.”

Friday’s performance was masterful and powerful, even with the normal orchestral accompaniment reduced to two pianos.  Frank Corliss, our former rehearsal pianist, even made a cameo as he joined current pianist Martin Amlin.  (I half-expected Phyllis Curtin, Seiji Ozawa, and James Levine to walk out at the end as a sort of “This Is Your Life” surprise movie ending for John.)  The moving music coupled with it being John’s performance meant some singers were fighting through tears while singing; in fact, many of us chorus members not in the prelude concert were dabbing our eyes as well.

You might call the piece John’s personal creed.  John has made it known in rehearsals before that he’s not particularly religious, but that he still relies on his sense of wonder about the world — especially when he needs us to convey that wonder in pieces that touch on the divine.  To some degree, you can’t sing great choral works, born out of their composers’ faith, without reaching inward and touching one’s own connection to Something Greater Than Us.  In this great Huffington Post interview with Michael Levin, John reflects on how his spirituality and emotional nature helps him connect to music.

I’m still a spiritual person in the sense that I get up every morning and am in awe of the universe, including the evils of our world. And I wonder, like anybody else does, how did this happen? I am not a religious person in the sense of organized religion. I fell out of the church when I was about 24 and was never tempted to go back again […] And I’m a very emotional person. I’m known to have my voice break up when I’m telling the chorus something. I said that to Phyllis Curtin recently. And she said, “Of course you are. You can’t be an artist without being very emotional.”

So to some degree, “The Promise of Living” feels like John’s parting advice to us.  Just as one of his other favorite pieces, the Brahms Requiem, is decidedly sacred but shrugs off any particular liturgical setting in favor of a more secular humanism, Copland’s work, capturing the vernacular of the Midwestern American spirit, echoes a faith in relying on those living with us now over any supernatural intervention.  In essence: our lives are made better by loving each other, looking out for each other, and sharing the work between us – and that is the path to “peace in our own hearts, and peace with our neighbor.”  As the chorus itself faces uncertainty, staring into a future sure to bring changes through the leadership transition, John reminds us to “keep planting each row with seeds of grain,” and Providence will take care of the rest.

I’d even go so far as to say that this song is the Tanglewood Festival Chorus’s personal creed — if it were possible for an entire organization to hold a belief.  “For many a year [we’ve] known these fields” of the greens of the Tanglewood lawn.  And we “know all the work that makes them yield” the music that we spend countless hours memorizing and internalizing separately, so that when we come together for a residency, “ready to lend a hand,” we can work together to “bring in the blessings of harvest.”  Sunshine or rain, we bring in the grain of another successful performance — and we do it together through a shared purpose that transcends any social cliques that form here and there while we enjoy our time out in the Berkshires.  When we’re on a stage together, whether it be Symphony Hall, Ozawa Hall, or the Koussevitzky Shed, we do so with the promise that sharing our hard labor and connecting personally with each other, with John, with the composer’s soul, and whoever’s conducting, will create a whole that’s greater than the sum of its parts.

So “let us sing our song, and let our song be heard.  Let’s sing our song with our hearts, and find a promise in that song.”  The Joy (Freude!) of Beethoven’s Ninth may be what the TFC is most known for, having performed it almost every summer for the last four decades.  But in our hearts, that Joy comes from what John Oliver has indelibly stamped on our characters.  The promise of living — the promise of singing — is the opportunity to continue working together as a community to create great music.  Nothing will ever change that.

Reviewing the Reviews of Verdi’s Stabat Mater performance

Our performance of Verdi’s Stabat Mater last weekend was just about everything I hoped for.

As an individual, I fought off a lingering cold to deliver (almost) all my singing with the clarity and precision I was searching for.  What held me from an A+ performance were a couple voice cracks and a few breaths I had to steal during long, slow phrases.  I felt like I told the story I wanted to tell, from the misery of the opening note, to the terror of seeing a tortured son, to the hushed whispers honoring his desolation, to the privilege of standing by the mother, and finishing with the prayer for ascension to glory.

As a chorus, we had a strong connection with Maestro Tovey, with the orchestra, with each other, and with the emotional subtext of the music.  We missed a few things, certainly: we basses never made it back to the full supported sound we achieved in rehearsals for our exposed passage, and I was disappointed the chorus didn’t successfully pull back at the beginning of the big finale, to make it more special.  Nevertheless, we created some indisputably magical moments.

If you haven’t heard the performance, it is streaming at WGBH (starting at 15:30) where it should remain available until July 2016.

Aaron Keebaugh, of the Boston Classical Review had a very positive review:

To capture the emotion of this most poignant of texts, the singers lofted their lines with supple blend and pristine diction.

A few isolated phrases in the beginning of the work suffered from some untidy attacks, but as the piece progressed the singers’ confidence grew. “Vidit suum” was desolate, the chorus controlling the thin textures with delicacy to match the sweet melancholy of the verse.

Tovey coaxed weighty, determined playing from the orchestra to support the earth-shaking statements of the “Sancta Mater.” “Flammis ne urar succensus” exploded with power. But the most affecting moment came at the end where the phrases of “Paradisi gloria” seemed to float heavenward where they formed into chords of robust strength before tapering off to whispers for the final “Amen.”

It’s always nice when a reviewer validates what you felt on stage: the desolate vidit suum, the powerful moments, and the great crescendo at the end.  I concede Aaron’s point about a few untidy attacks at the beginning — we basses were not together in the first /kw/ of our Quae mœrebat entrance, though we did support it better than we had in some rehearsals.

Andrew Pincus of The Berkshire Eagle gives our Stabat Mater performance a brief mention in his write-up of the weekend as well:

John Oliver’s Tanglewood Festival Chorus, though perhaps too large for so intimate a piece, nevertheless sang it with opulence of sound and full devotional fervor.

While we’d accept the compliment, I think our roster of 120 singers is no different than the approach we’ve used for many similar pieces over the last several decades, so it’s more of a question of personal taste here.  Intimate 60-person choral pieces belong in Ozawa Hall or maybe back in Boston at Symphony Hall, where they won’t get buried by the Shed’s open architecture and the orchestra’s blazing passages.

Jeremy Eichler’s Boston Globe review only gives us a passing mention:

The Tanglewood Festival Chorus sang well, if with some tentativeness, in Verdi’s “Stabat Mater,” but the first half in truth belonged to the towering bass-baritone Bryn Terfel.

He does compliment us later for our participation in the crowd scenes of Tosca.  In general, I’ve found Eichler to be not particularly kind to the chorus in his reviews, for whatever reason.  It may also be because in the Globe, he doesn’t have the space to devote to our blip on the program radar in an overview of the entire weekend.  I assume his reference to “tentativeness” was for the same “untidy attacks” that Keebaugh mentioned which I remember from the bass line.

Finally, John Ehrlich had wonderful things to say in his review for the Boston Music Intelligencer.  Here’s an excerpt regarding the Stabat Mater:

As with all of the late Verdi works, there was much to amaze the listener. […] The music is alternately anguished, terrifying, reflective, and ultimately noble, a masterful marriage of language and illustrative, emotional music. Tovey was alert to each twist and turn of the score, and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus followed his every lead. The many exposed orchestral moments were, of course, elegantly essayed by the orchestra. Not surprisingly, the applause was a bit tepid at the music’s end. It is an unsettling work, to be sure. I wished the audience had accorded a bit more enthusiasm for this elegant performance.

While he didn’t specifically call out the chorus’s performance for the Stabat Mater, Ehrlich’s enthusiasm for the emotional roller coaster and the unsettling nature of the music is a clear indication that we succeeded.  We made that connection to the soul of the composer and distilled it for our audience to internalize.  A triumph indeed!

Connecting to the Emotional Depths of Verdi

This Saturday we are singing a very emotional, almost melodramatic piece: Verdi’s Stabat Mater.  To plumb the depths of its rich emotional content, I’ve found, requires a combination of individual effort and a unifying vision by our conductors.

Regardless of your religious upbringing, there’s something fundamentally primal about the scene set forth: Mary standing beside Jesus’s cross as he dies. Everyone has been a son/daughter, and many of us are either parents ourselves or have taken care of someone we love. We know the fear, the anguish, of a loved one suffering and not being able to do anything to prevent it.

Singing is about communicating. And so each of us in the chorus has to find that dark place within us, that fear and anguish – as well as the longing and hope for an end to that suffering through salvation – and tap into those emotions enough to bring it out in the notes we sing.  You’d think it wouldn’t matter: a C-sharp is a C-sharp is a C-sharp, right?  Wrong.  The difference in emotional context is noticeable even to an untrained ear.

But 120 individual connections to the music doesn’t give us a unified sound. That’s where John Oliver and Bramwell Tovey come in. They use metaphors and describe situations to bring our interpretations together. Let me cite some examples.

The very first note of the piece is this strong dissonant C-sharp leading tone in unison. It’s a forceful entrance that also has to double as that powerful initial outpouring of a mother’s grief.

In a later section, Maestro Tovey asked us to sing proudly, as if we felt privileged to share that mother’s grief by standing with her. I definitely didn’t have that going in

As we sing about Jesus – her sweet son, dying, abandoned, his last breath escaping – Tovey asked for a quieter and more mournful sound. “Who would ever want to be a mother,” he commented, after rehearsing that package.

The end of the piece is us pleading that when our bodies die, we ask to be granted passage into heaven (paradisi gloria). We first sang it a little too happy; “when our bodies die, yay!”  But besides correcting that, Maestro Tovey asked us to sing it as if we weren’t sure we were gonna make it. The result is this trembling, doubtful unspoken question hanging over the hesitating request for salvation, followed by a  glorious representation of heaven in the finale. Strings and brass blare as we crescendo, literally ascending to musical heights.  This morning he did one better, asking us to observe the triple-piano at the beginning of the ascension to heaven. The result is this truly magical moment, right after the trepidatious prayer, where it just feels like the whole world is glittering with sunlight in the morning. It’s the transformational moment when The Beast becomes the prince, when Excalibur comes out of the stone, when Dorothy clicks her heels and goes home. It’s the ultimate reveal.

Verdi, perhaps more so than any other Romantic era composer, is prone to extreme dynamics and overtly dramatic passages to highlight emotional extravagance. This piece perfectly captures his style, and I’m looking forward to delivering it wit h the chorus on Saturday night (8:30pm, WCRB and live streamed.)

On the retirement of John Oliver, my musical North Star

Today, it was announced (officially and publicly) that John Oliver, founder and sole conductor of the Tanglewood Festival Chorus for 45 years, was stepping down from his leadership position at the end of the 2015 Tanglewood season.

We knew it would happen someday, even if we don’t know why it’s now.  The lure of his greenhouse gardens?  The tough commutes to Boston and the Berkshires?  A break to write his memoirs?  A need for the next chapter?

It’s not like he’s dying or quitting making music (which, for Maestro Frühbeck de Burgos were equivalent); he and his white pants will continue to be a strong presence out at Tanglewood with his Master Teacher Chair position, and I’m sure as “Conductor Laureate of the TFC” he’ll appear again in our Symphony Hall rehearsal room to over the ensuing years.  But it’s the end of an era — his era.

Conductors, choristers, orchestra members, and critics will undoubtedly praise his musicianship, his talent, his longevity, and the long-lasting effect he’s had on the Boston vocal music scene.  But let me tell you what John Oliver means to me.

From age 5 to 17, my private piano teacher (hi, Mrs. Sori!) was my musical lens, and in some ways, a life coach.  She not only tapped into my musical talents, but instilled in me perseverance, the work ethics of practice, and the joys of performance.  She encouraged my positive outlook.  She taught me about trusting the talents you were given, and giving back to the world by celebrating them.  When I left her behind and pursued a music minor in college, my musical world broadened.  But for a year, I had no musical guidance — no North Star — beyond brief inspirations from professors teaching us the intricacies of harmony and counterpoint, music history, composing… and choral music, through a weekly sight singing lab.

On a whim in 1991, I joined the MIT Concert Choir (as a course for credit), which John Oliver conducted.  And John, whether he knew it or not, became my new musical North Star.  I knew nothing of choral singing before that class, but walked out of college 4 years later having sung masses and requiems and symphonies and tone poems by Mozart, Stravinsky, Beethoven, Brahms, Verdi, Mendelssohn, and others.  I was hooked.

It’s because of that experience that, after graduating in February 1996, I hopped in and out of local choruses and grabbed a few “rent-a-bass” pickup chorus gigs, because I had developed such a love of singing and choral music.  And, to my chagrin, I began to further appreciate John’s approach as a conductor, by not having it in my life any more.  I started to see how his instincts, musical interpretations, and technical corrections (simple example: his definitive “eighths out” for rests to line up our cutoffs and increase the intelligibility of the text) really fixed a lot of choral problems that other groups and conductors were struggling to solve.

In 1998 I found out that John Oliver conducted the Tanglewood Festival Chorus.  So I auditioned, and was fortunate enough to get on the Pops-only roster.  Then he invited me to join a couple summer concert rosters, including the prelude concert that year.  “Tanglewood… what’s that?  Where is it?” I asked.  Needless to say, I was hooked again.

I had my musical North Star back, moreso than ever before.  That’s because the TFC was continually molded by John into what he wanted from a chorus.  Those instincts and interpretations that made so much sense to me were now infused into this collective group, and blossomed in every rehearsal and performance.  His focus on internalizing the music jived with my ability to memorize.  The drudgery of weekly note practices from community choruses was replaced with opportunities to go deeper into what the music was communicating.  Our musical flexibility increased as we learned to adapt his approaches to that week’s conductor’s vision.  Our musical intelligence grew from his master classes, mental visualizations, and other singing advice he doled out (in between jokes, of course) during his time with us.  It got me further than I could ever afford to travel via $50-$100/hr voice lessons.

In a sense, most of what I love about my life has been possible thanks to John being part of my life.  That’s because in 2000, I met my future wife in the chorus. That December I proposed to her on stage during a Pops concert.   If I hadn’t learned to sing with John, and been part of his chorus, I probably would have never met her, and grown this wonderful family.

In the early 2000s, John kicked me down from the regular performance roster back to the Pops-only roster.  After two failed auditions to get back on the regular roster, John explained: “Your musical intelligence is fine, but you don’t know how to produce sound correctly.  I can’t use you until you learn to use your instrument.  Take some private voice lessons, then come back.”  Humbled, I did as he asked, and discovered that I was Doing It All Wrong(TM).  When I returned triumphantly with my newly discovered voice, John nodded and put me right back on the roster.  Without that kick in the pants, I would have lumbered along with my “tired back-pew-of-the-church singer” voice and never challenged my level.  Oh, I’ll never be one of the best 30-60 core singers in the group who sing prelude concerts; I’m not investing in my voice like the harder working, more dedicated career musicians in the chorus are doing.  He’s continued to be that teacher, for all of us.  He doesn’t push us, so much as the weight of his expectations and our desire to achieve those high levels of musicianship push us — and that’s part of the culture he’s created.  I’ve been incredibly blessed with the opportunity to make music with him for the last 20-25 years… and to do it the way I’ve learned to make music… the way I’ll now always make music.

There are chorus members who can also call themselves personal friends with John.  I am not one of them.  I’ve never joined his table at Brasserie Jo, or sat with him at our Tent Club after parties.  But you know what?  That’s totally fine.  You never really want to be too close to your teachers, or they lose that authority and a little bit of that mystique.  We’re not strangers by any means: he’s complimented me on my newsletter articles, I’ve shared a few jokes and observations with him in hallway conversations, and I’m quite confident that his ear and intimate knowledge of his singers means he can pick my individual voice out of a chorus of 20 basses.  He may not have truly appreciated how he’s affected my musical life, let alone the lives of the thousands of choristers he’s coached, urged, pleaded, harangued, inspired, critiqued, and goaded until he got the sound he was looking for.  But he has.

I’ve sat at John’s musical side and basked in his tutelage since 1991; others, even longer.  There will be other stars to navigate by, but none will shine as bright in my musical life as John Oliver has.  We all wish him the best.

An emotionally fulfilling, connected Brahms

Ahhhhh.  That hit the spot.  Thursday evening’s Brahms Requiem was possibly one of our more emotionally fulfilling performances of the piece.

Personally, I felt very connected, in many ways.

I felt connected to my body.  My diaphragm and the “front porch” of my mouth and lips and arches were linked up, so I could generate and support the volume of sound I needed.  I was struggling in rehearsals to find that connection and it meant a breathy, unsupported sound.  I agree whole-heartedly with other choristers who suggested that we had a lot of people trying to save their voices in rehearsals, which may have accounted for the uneven sound then.  It felt good to not hold back.

I felt connected to Maestro Tovey as he urged us through each movement.  Some conductors are facilitators.  Some are all about technical precision.  Some are about showmanship.  But I think Tovey’s conducting is about leadership.  He is constantly encouraging us, with a knowing smile and a wink, even as he waves us onward.  (I also felt connected to him when 10 of us grabbed a drink together afterwards!)

I felt connected to the rest of the chorus, who came through brilliantly in all the tough parts that bedeviled us in rehearsals.   Sopranos and tenors soared through those tough high passages.  Altos were the solid foundation.  We basses found levels of expressiveness I didn’t know we had.  Even exiled in the upper back corner of the stage, I had no trouble feeling like I was part of every line.

I felt connected to the emotional message of the piece.  I found it easy to slip into the roles of comforter, doom-foreteller, patience-counselor, awestruck heaven-gazer, and nose-thumber — you don’t get to taunt Death too often, after all.  With the emotional backdrop of the recent tragic death of a chorister’s sister, I think we all had something to sing for, and someone to comfort.

Lastly, I felt connected to the audience.  One woman in the front balcony, who clearly knew and loved the piece, was practically slapping her hand on the railing in time to the fast section in the 6th movement.  And the moment after the piece was over was amazing.  Tovey kept his hands up long after the last notes had died down, and the audience held their applause, not wanting to break the spell.

Was this a technically sound performance?  I think any performance will have its share of mistakes.  I know I messed up a few words, and I heard a few folks talking about blown or unintentional entrances here and there.  And our diction will never be as crisp as it was with Dohnányi.  But that was never the point.  We needed to connect with the music, with the audience, and with each other, and we succeeded.