March 4, 2023

Exhausting rehearsal at Central Methodist. Our director’s mania for spending time fixing boo-boos (which, as a performing artist, I know mostly fix themselves) leaves us in the situation of never having sung the piece through. I got lost in my thoughts for an instant and came in a beat too early (on the triumphantly right note) and cringed inside because I knew he’d take everybody’s time and do the passage over, though it had not happened before and an unobsessed person would have put it down to error. That procedure does not actually make a performance better; it makes it more cautious. An unfamiliar voice behind me was so rich and sweet (and correct) that I had to turn to look. He was Philip, our baritone soloist. The differences among voices is remarkable. Some of us are pretty good, but he is a stand of lilies in a well-kept garden. 

Late: sang the Durufle. Was in good voice despite bellowing last night. The guy next to me anticipated three entrances and was almost never on pitch at the beginning of phrases. He missed last night’s rehearsal and always sings loud because he thinks he’s good. The concert was fun. Walked out afterwards under moonlight and the happy streets filled with revels of one sort or another. Came home, and a little beagle sat on my porch. We got acquainted, until the frantic voice of his human mom could be heard in the distance, and he zoomed home.