November 2, 2021

Third day without Internet. It’s surprisingly debilitating, I suppose in part because it’s accidental rather than purposeful. I intended no such austerity at this point. No TV to rest before after a jangled day; no radio, no Alexa to tell me the time or the news, no way to research anything as I write, no access to pornography, no way to submit a manuscript or keep in touch with such society as one has on line. Had to relearn the use of my video player, and to wonder again at my choice of videos.  AT&T promises to come today.  

My first (their third or so) rehearsal of DFL last night at All Souls. I see why they invited me, for through the evening I heard not a peep out of the other second bass, though beside me sat a strong baritone who helped when we had the same notes. I’m as good a reader as the others, so that was an anxiety relieved. One Brunhilda-ish soprano tops the ensemble, piercing even from the far side of the room. The composer/conductor is stick-thin and possesses the energy (and concentration) of a squirrel. My question to the universe is why do conductors ALWAYS think of a million things to say AFTER the pitches have been given?  How is the piece? I heard just what I heard last night. It’s very long– the score 215 pages–and the bit of the libretto I managed to see was flat-footed, not the biblical text, but a paraphrase many shades paler, likely depending on the music to raise the level of interest. The music is interesting to sing. My guess is that it will be trying to an audience, who will endure it for the sake of facing the “new” head on, rather than any hope of actual enjoyment. I may be wrong. What we sang last night was– the composer called it “crunchy”; the audience will call it “ugly”– dissonance piled on dissonance toward no end that I fathom at this point. The composer/conductor spent fifteen minutes parsing out a chord that needed to be parsed out because there was no logic to it, no aesthetic, just a big blatty sound needing to be explained. Luckily for singers, it is quite repetitious. You could lose forty pages (and you probably want to lose forty pages) by taking out variations and recapitulations. But, this is one night. It may all click into place. I am, though, tired of composers who allow themselves to imagine difficulty somehow takes the place of vision. 

Another thing that must be said is that I enjoyed the rehearsal, enjoyed meeting new people, enjoyed doing something– performing a new piece–I haven’t done in a while. I felt healthier walking out in the dark toward my car. Made myself a hot toddy, watched Bing Crosby flicks, and went to bed. The Lincoln’s Birthday blackface in Holiday Inn sends racial signals that no one in the 21st century can read. 

2 PM: Big handsome Paul Bunyan-resembling guy rooting around in the attic, trying to splice the optical cable the squirrels have apparently gnawed through. Jake the AT&T guy grew up in Cruso, the site of the terrible floods, but his dad’s land lay high enough above the river to survive.