Silence, Part 1

Here's something a little more uplifting than my last couple of posts. A bit sentimental maybe, but I've wanted to write it for a while.

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I excused myself for a few seconds at the after-party and stepped outside onto the icy streets of Brattleboro, Vermont. I needed a little time to be alone, collect my thoughts, and digest the events of the past weekend –indeed, the past month– and this was about the only opportunity I was going to get. It was cold outside, and my sweater wasn’t quite enough to keep the bite out, but I didn’t mind. I settled up against a wall, folded my arms, and thought back.

Every time I try and piece together the ridiculous series of coincidences that brought me to this a cappella concert in this small Vermont town I can’t help but smile and laugh a little. How improbable, how mind-bendingly unlikely. I suppose we should begin in 2003. It was late summer, I was a Sophomore in high school. I’d been playing the guitar for two or three years, and my lessons with my guitar teacher were almost purely centered around jazz, so I figured that auditioning for the Skyline High School Jazz Band wouldn’t be a bad idea. After all, what better way to improve myself musically than by applying the chords and concepts I was learning?

My dad dropped me off outside the high school, and I proceeded inside, guitar and amp in tow. I couldn’t read music very well, so I was pretty nervous about making an ass of myself in front of the band director. I walked up to a table outside the music room and asked, in a very sophomoric fashion,
“Is this the Jazz Band audition?”
The guy sitting at the table, who I later learned was the president of the school’s barbershop choir, looked at me for a second and said,
“Uh, no, this is the choir audition.”
“Oh.”
I stood there for a second, feeling incredibly dumb. Straps biting into my hand, I wasn't sure whether to turn around and leave or stay.
“Would you like to audition anyway?” The choir president asked. I agreed. Setting my things down in the hallway, I walked into the choir room.

Seated at the top of an amphitheater-style series of risers was the choir director. I made a sheepish hello. I, of course, didn’t have anything to sing, and so I sang “America the Beautiful” with the accompanist. Very, very badly. After this the choir director had me clap out a few rhythms and sing back a few series of notes. He remarked that I had a good ear after I sang back the notes to him, but I figured my overall dismal performance was going to be a deal breaker. I thanked him for the audition and walked back to the car, completely embarrassed.

A week or so later I got a call. Apparently I had made it into the barbershop choir, the Troubadours. I’d be singing bass.

My time with the Troubadours –then Concert Choir, and eventually Madrigals in my senior year– came to define my life. Walking into the choir room on the first day of class I barely had a grasp on what I was doing. If I wasn’t surrounded by other basses I’d lose my part completely. But I slowly learned to distinguish my part from the other three parts, picked up on the musical conventions of the style, gained a sense for what different chords and harmonies felt like. By my senior year I was convinced that I wanted to pursue this in college, and looked for schools with good vocal performance programs. I eventually settled on Ithaca College in upstate New York.