Music - The Language of Connection
How a four-day choir trip to the Caribbean radically shifted my outlook on life.
Hello my friends! You’re in for a treat today, and not of the poem variety!! This is an essay I wrote a few months back after I was lucky enough to go to Guadalupe with a few choral students from BYU! I’ll let you read the rest, but I hope you enjoy. :) Happy Sabbath xoxo.
Music is one of the most versatile art forms in my opinion, taking the shape of the mind that creates it and evoking a visceral reaction in both the producer and consumer of the sound. Think about it - Rock and Roll, Opera, Reggaeton, and Blues all stemmed from a human brain, that mass of 60% fat, 40% water, protein, carbohydrates, and salt. What do I get when I combine fat, water, protein, carbohydrates, and salt? An exquisite dinner of steak and potatoes. Certainly not Beehtoven’s 5th symphony. Yet that brain, that beautiful organ, is capable of mixing vibrations together in certain ways to augment sound, thus augmenting reality itself.
I marvel at the power of music, but I am completely dumbfounded at the way us humans have been able to harness such power. Take, for example: a choir. We’ll make it a small choir, 34 people. Assuming they all have both eyes, that’s 68 eyes. The eyes are composed of the sclera, cornea, conjunctiva, aqueous humour, lens, ciliary body, iris, pupil, vitreous humour, retina, optic nerve, choroid, fovea, and macula, all working together to capture light and convert it into images. And onto what are each one of those hundreds of individual components riveted? A singular person: the conductor. This conductor controls all 34 singers, their lungs, their lips, their jaws, their tongues, with what? Mind control? No. Puppet strings? No. With their body movements. A flick of the hand, a raise of the brow, an inhale through an open mouth. Utter insanity, if you ask me. Yet, after many years of choral singing, following a conductor is as natural to me as tying my shoes every morning.
I went to Guadalupe a few weeks ago; a French island nestled in the Caribbean. It’s a cutie little place; it looks like someone cut out a random French countryside with those zigzag scissors from elementary school and pasted it onto a Caribbean landscape with some runny Elmer’s Glue. It looks French, speaks French, and smells French, but everything is a little crooked around the edges and the Latin American essence has joyfully begun to seep through. The purpose of this particular trip: an interfaith outreach concert with the Gospel Celebration Singers, a gospel choir from the Seventh Day Adventist denomination. Our first and only rehearsal before the concert was on the same night we landed, and I blearily walked into the small, humid, LDS chapel, completely unaware of the magic that was about to unfold before my eyes.
Before we get into the magic, let me explain my preconceived notions of how choral singing works. My previous experience is thus: I receive a sheet of music, filled with little black lines and circles dictating my every move. I hold onto that sheet of paper like a lifeline, looking up only when I am comfortable enough to doggy paddle my way through the music. I watch the conductor’s hands like a hawk, fitting my own notes into the larger beats that he/she is giving me.
Now, allow me to introduce a stark contrast to this mechanical and analytical approach to music: Monique. I never needed to learn her last name, her first name does her justice. She is the conductor of Celebration Gospel Singers, a small woman with short, curly black hair and chunky black glasses that she takes off whenever she gets particularly excited about a section of music.
There I was, sweating in the chapel, ready to rehearse our song together, and as soon as she raised her arms to begin the piece, I was captivated. As I glanced at my music to remind myself of the notes and rhythms, I noticed that the gospel singers next to me didn’t have any sheet music. All they had were lyrics, and yet they knew exactly what was going on. We reached the end of the first run-through, and I was surprised to see that Monique went completely off script; she changed the rhythms and notes and added an entire additional ending. My music was soon forgotten, having been rendered useless. I watched Monique, and without any verbal communication, she told me exactly what I needed to sing. I knew, even before I opened my mouth, what was going to come next.
Monique didn’t speak English very well, yet our brains were able to communicate on a level I’ve never experienced. She and the Gospel Celebration Singers showed me what it means to sing with not only your brain and your eyes, but your heart and your soul. Our mouths struggled to speak the same language, yet our hearts effortlessly sang the same song: that of redeeming love.
Which of these two methods is correct? Which is better? My director shaping our sound with his hands, delicately crafting each syllable, or Monique pointing at me and somehow communicating to me with one finger that I needed to repeat the last line of the previous verse? May I propose that both are incredible, each producing a distinct sound and praising our Savior in their own unique ways. Sometimes, we get stuck in a rut of what our reality should be. We are so used to singing classical motets that we deny the validity of a really great headbanger.
May I extend an invitation to you? Fly to Guadalupe, sit in that plastic chair, sweat a little bit, and see what happens when you get outside of your own head and begin to live with reckless abandon. Give your brain and your eyes a little break, put your sheet music down, and belt out your truth unapologetically and with passion. Perhaps you may be apprehensive. Perhaps your voice may crack. Perhaps, you will find that there is more color and joy and laughter in this world than anything you could ever conceive. When you’re finished with the song and the applause dies down, go back to your house, go back to your own routine, but don’t you ever get rid of that rainbow of color that stuck to you as you sat in a chapel in Guadalupe, singing from your soul.