Why She Sings
by Eve Krakow
Before leaving the house, she double-checks her bag: music binder, pencil, glasses, water bottle. There’s something comforting about the ritual of going to choir rehearsal, the same day and same time each week, year in and year out. Regardless of what else is going on in her life—break-ups, work stress, health issues—choir is a constant.
It doesn’t matter that it’s not the exact same people in the group each year, or even the same group. The choice of repertoire is irrelevant. What matters is the act of singing with others. Being part of that community. For over two decades, singing in choirs has been an integral, vital part of her life.
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My first choral experience was in elementary school. Two teachers directed the choir during our lunch hour, with occasional extra rehearsals after school. It was made up mostly of girls, and we nearly always sang in unison, only sometimes breaking into two parts. I was a shy kid, but I loved to sing. The choir offered me an easy way to belong.
In high school, I was awkward, self-conscious and reserved. Singing was not only my way of expressing myself, but during the school talent show, it gave me a chance to shine: I performed an original song, accompanying myself on piano and singing into a mic before a packed auditorium. I might have fumbled the ball and cost my team a goal in touch football, made a fool of myself talking to a boy or worn the wrong clothes on picture day, but I could sing.
The following years, I sang in a few shows with a youth theatre group, but then music faded into the distance as I focused on university, a boyfriend, travelling, and trying to launch my career as a journalist.
It was not until my mid twenties that I discovered the world of amateur choirs.
I heard someone at a party mention they sang in a choir, and I was intrigued. The idea tugged at something within me. I found an ad in the local entertainment weekly from a group looking for singers. They rehearsed in Outremont, the neighborhood where I’d grown up and gone to school. Maybe I’d know someone in the group, and we’d reconnect?
At the audition I was nervous, not knowing what to expect. I sang a few scales and then my chosen song, “Quand Rose va chez son fils” by Beau Dommage. But then days passed, and I didn’t hear back. Finally, I phoned, priming myself for rejection. “Oh, yes, of course you’re accepted,” the director said. “I’m so sorry we forgot to call.”
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She can still recall the first rehearsal.
They were warming up. The director asked the basses to sing a note, then the tenors another, the altos another, and then the sopranos, forming a chord. She felt goosebumps. Literally: bumps on her skin and a shiver on the back of her neck. Tears pricked her eyes. This harmony, the welling of continuous sound, and she was smack dab in the middle of it. She was helping to create it. People took breaths and then joined in again, replenishing the chord’s energy, swelling in volume as the director opened her arms, then growing softer as she brought her hands together. Then the director flicked her wrist, and although the singers cut the note, the sound lingered, reverberating around the room.
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In the end, no one from my past was part of the Ensemble Vocal d’Outremont, but it still turned out to be a fortunate choice. I sang with them for seven years. The group was composed of about fifty singers, some of whom did not read music but learned their part from recordings prepared by the director. We performed large classical works—Mozart’s Requiem, Handel’s Messiah, Vivaldi’s Gloria, Bach’s Magnificat—accompanied by musicians hired for the concert.
Like many amateur choirs, the organization was run by volunteers. About two years in, I joined the board of directors. I figured it would be a good way to get to know people better. For several years, making use of my journalism and graphic layout skills, I coordinated concert promotion and production of the poster, program and tickets.
To be honest, part of my motivation to get more involved was to stave off my personal discomfort as an introvert. We always took a break halfway through rehearsal, and I never knew what to say to anyone. Working on the program and promotional materials gave me concrete tasks to focus on: checking the spelling of people’s names, confirming a detail for the program, showing a mock-up of the poster to another board member.
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Even though she’s been with the group for years and is friendly with everyone, she doesn’t know anyone that well. She rarely sees any choir members outside rehearsals. But she’s acutely aware that other people have developed close friendships. At rehearsal, she overhears them confirming dinner arrangements, or talking about a play they went to together.
During the break she stands there, ill at ease, body growing hot, sweat forming under her arms as she becomes increasingly self-conscious. She kills time by walking to the bathroom down the hall, or sits hunched over her music, pretending to review a tricky part. Some days she feels brave and makes a determined effort to talk to people: she asks a fellow singer about their job, their family, a trip they just took. For a few minutes, the conversation seems to flow, and she feels that she’s making progress. But then there’s an awkward pause. She is relieved when rehearsal resumes. Because then she can just follow her score, and be one with everyone else in the music.
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And then the Outremont choir suffered a crisis. Mostly financial. Members paid a fee, but it was not enough to cover all the costs: rehearsal space and concert hall rental, rehearsal pianist, director’s honorarium, requisite insurance and, especially, hiring musicians for the concerts. Not to mention printing tickets, posters and programs. Choristers sold tickets for the concerts and participated in fundraising, but with two concerts a year, it was hard to maintain the momentum. There were organizational problems, too. The artistic director, who had founded the group, was burnt out from being so heavily involved in the administrative aspects, and since the same people always volunteered, the board of directors was burnt out, too.
The crisis reached a peak, and the choir decided to go on hiatus for a year. A small committee was formed to look at possibilities for the future and to report back. When we reconvened, various options were put to a vote—including disbanding. Ultimately, that was the option chosen. The Ensemble Vocal d’Outremont was no more.
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A year or two after joining the Outremont choir, I had started taking singing lessons with the director. She had many students and often involved us in small group projects—mini-concerts where we’d perform in duets, trios or quartets. One year, nine of us sang parts of Handel’s Messiah; another time, we presented excerpts from The Magic Flute, complete with costumes and some acting.
She also held masterclasses, where we’d take turns performing in front of the other students and receive feedback. So although my lessons were private, one-on-one sessions, I got to know the other students: we became familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses, followed each other’s progress and cheered each other on. When I think back on that time, the memories are as much about singing with other people as singing on my own—perhaps even more so.
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After the Outremont choir folded, I joined the Montreal West Operatic Society, an amateur group that performed Gilbert & Sullivan operettas. At the time, they mounted full-fledged productions, with costumes, sets and lighting. The first year I joined, it was The Mikado (a show which now strikes me as horribly offensive); the second, Iolanthe. For both productions, while I sang in the chorus, I was also an understudy for one of the secondary roles. Learning the music and lyrics was easy enough, but remembering my lines, acting, and executing choreography did not come naturally. The night of the first performance, the smell of hair spray and theatre makeup brought back warm memories from my years in a youth theatre group; once again, it was the feeling of belonging I cherished most, the excitement of being part of a happening, the kinship I felt with my fellow actors and singers.
Two years of Gilbert & Sullivan operettas was fun, but enough. I wanted a change of repertoire and to focus on singing, not acting. Once again, I flipped through the classified ads in the local entertainment weekly, running a finger along the “auditions” column. An ad for The Orpheus Singers caught my eye: a chamber choir looking for experienced singers who could read music.
The director was a professor at McGill, and the audition took place in his office. He had me sing up and down a scale, and a short piece I’d prepared in advance. Then he gave me a page with a few bars to sight-read. He left the room for a few minutes to give me a chance to look it over. I panicked. Reading music was not the problem: I had learned to read music as a child during piano lessons. But sight-reading—directly singing the notes you are reading—was not my strength. When he returned, I tried to sing the measures, but I knew that my intervals, my rhythm, everything was all wrong. I could feel my face getting hot. My voice started to waver. He let me try again, but my second attempt was not much better.
I was already feeling disappointed, sure I’d flubbed the audition. But then he invited me to come to the next rehearsal so that he could hear how my voice fit with everyone else’s.
That was twenty years ago. I have been singing with the same group, off and on, ever since.
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On concert nights, the air crackles. She feels closer to everyone. She passes someone on her way from the hall to the church kitchen and they exchange knowing smiles. Synergy and solidarity. Everyone’s nerves are tuned to a slightly higher pitch, their palms sweaty, butterflies in their stomachs. The air is charged with promise. During the warm-up, voices have a slight tremble, a waver, an edge. Nora feels alive, every part of her body quivering, the skin on her bare arms, electric. In their excitement, the choristers pick up speed during the run-through of a piece and the director has to reign them in. Breathe. Deep breaths, in and out.
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Many years ago, I started writing a novel. In fact, I’ve tried writing it several times. I always get off to a good start, and the ending isn’t too bad either, but the middle lacks substance. Still, I think my premise has merit.
As the story opens, Nora, the protagonist, is at a choir rehearsal. She’s been with this choir for over a decade. She’s a shy person, an introvert, single and without many friends; the choir is the one place where she feels that she truly belongs. It’s not so much that she’s close to the other choir members; in fact, she knows very little about their personal lives, and they know very little about her. But when she’s in a rehearsal, or singing in a concert, she feels that she is among like-minded souls. The music allows her to express herself in ways that she cannot in daily life.
Suddenly, however, there’s a crisis: the choir is out of money and plagued by internal conflicts; the group is threatening to fold. But the choir is Nora’s only real connection to other people. And so, for her, this is a life-and-death situation: she cannot imagine her life without it. She cannot imagine having to start over with a different group, where it might take her years to feel comfortable. She must find a way to keep this one going.
To save the choir, however, she’ll need to venture outside her comfort zone. The steps required to keep the choir afloat will force her to face her fears, to dare reaching out, and to connect with other individuals on a deeper, more meaningful level. Although she may or may not save the choir (the ending is still undetermined), the experience will force her to grow and fulfill her potential.
Obviously, the idea of a choir closing its doors came from my experience with the Outremont ensemble, but these events were and are not unique to that group. Community choirs are always scrambling for funds, desperately trying to raise money and sell enough tickets for their concerts to break even. They tend to be plagued with all the human problems of volunteer-run arts organizations, including volunteer burn-out, personality conflicts, and lack of management or business expertise.
And then there are unforeseen circumstances—such as a global pandemic.
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The night of March 11, 2020, our choir met as usual to rehearse. Cases of COVID-19 in Quebec numbered in the very low double-digits. People still thought the virus was transmitted mainly by people with symptoms and by touching infected surfaces and then your face. Only health professionals were wearing masks.
Once we were assembled, our director announced that one of the basses had called to explain why he wouldn’t be at rehearsal. “One of his work colleagues visited a client a few days ago. Now they’ve found out that someone at that client’s office has contracted the virus.” He paused to allow for our murmurs of surprise. “The question is, what are the chances that he’s been exposed, and should he come to rehearsal?”
A debate ensued about the proper policy to adopt. I vaguely remember a discussion about door handles. If someone was sick and touched a door handle and then someone else touched that door handle, should they refrain from coming to rehearsal? How many degrees of door handle separation were acceptable? People were half-joking. A soprano mentioned “social distancing,” and I thought that was a joke too. No, really, she said: it means keeping two metres apart from each other. So we spaced out our seating and carried on with rehearsal. It was agreed that the board of directors would decide on an appropriate coronavirus policy.
Two days later, the discussion became moot. Quebec schools were closed and large public gatherings banned. This was followed by the shutdown of office buildings, shopping malls, stores, restaurants, libraries, gyms and hair salons. The pandemic was in full swing, and the lockdown had begun.
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The following week, our choir tried holding a virtual rehearsal. We met on Zoom. It was my first experience with all those little boxes lined up in rows on my screen. But when we tried to sing, it was a disaster. Each person’s computer lagged behind at a different rate. We kept at it for a while, trying in small groups, and then even just two people at a time, but it was no use. Each attempt ended in bursts of laughter.
At the time, it all seemed surreal, unreal. Temporary.
It was only as the pandemic wore on that I finally realized the truth: singing in itself was not enough. What I needed was to sing with other people.
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On March 29, an article from the LA Times began circulating online: “A choir decided to go ahead with rehearsal. Now dozens of members have COVID-19 and two are dead.”
I clicked on the link with a sense of dread. In early March, after much debate, a church choir had decided to go ahead with its weekly rehearsal. There had been cases of the virus in nearby Seattle, but none in their own county. About sixty of the 120 members had shown up. They took precautions: used hand sanitizer, refrained from the usual hugs and handshakes, kept more distance than usual between each other when they sang. The rehearsal lasted two-and-half hours.
It sounded exactly like my choir’s rehearsals. Except that in their case, three weeks later, forty-five members had been diagnosed with COVID-19 or were ill with symptoms, three had been hospitalized, and two were dead.
In May 2020, the president of the Performing Arts Medical Association was quoted in an article saying: “There is no safe way for singers to rehearse together until there is a COVID-19 vaccine.”
When I read that, the blood rushed to my head, pounding in my ears. The walls started to close in. Would singing in a group be banned forever? Would I ever be able to sing with people again?
Some community choirs continued virtually. Everyone would keep their camera on but mute their microphone, except for the director or the accompanying pianist, and each person would sing their own part for their own ears. Or they’d take turns turning on their microphones. Some choirs put together virtual concerts, getting each person to record their part, and then putting all the voices and faces together digitally.
My choir did none of this. We met socially on Zoom every few weeks. Over time, even those get-togethers petered out.
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In the summer of 2021, I had a serious health scare, involving minor surgery and follow-up treatment. By the fall, Orpheus had still not resumed its regular practices, but I really wanted—needed—to sing. And I needed the ritual and routine of a weekly rehearsal.
I decided to try a different choir. Feeling vulnerable from my health scare, I chose an all-women’s choir whose director was familiar to me from a music retreat I’d attended a few years earlier.
The Chorale du Gesù was a big group, about thirty-five singers (down from a pre-pandemic fifty), mostly francophone, and perhaps for both these reasons, it reminded me of the Outremont ensemble. It seemed that in every choir, certain dynamics prevailed: the altos were flat, and the sopranos ran away with the melody. There was always someone who needed everything to be explicit (“So that breath lasts a dotted sixteenth-note?”), someone who liked to point out mistakes in the score, someone who interrupted the rehearsal with jokes, someone who never listened and kept asking what bar we were starting from. The familiarity was hugely comforting.
One evening, the woman on my left turned to me and said: “What I love about choir is that during these two hours, it doesn’t matter what else is going on in my life, I’m just focused on the music. I don’t think of anything else.”
Exactly.
Rehearsals are like a moment out of time, when all else fades to the background—whether because of the technical concentration required, or because music allows us to access something larger than ourselves, or simply because of the fellowship and camaraderie. When I broke up with my partner of twelve years and felt shaky and unmoored, choir offered a solid foothold. Whenever I was stressed about work, choir cleared my mind. When my children were babies and motherhood consumed every ounce of my physical and mental energy, each Wednesday evening I’d leave them with my husband and relish those two precious hours when I could feel like myself again.
I stayed with the Gesù choir for the full season, sang in the concerts, and had a good time. But I never quite felt that I fit in. And although I enjoyed the repertoire of folksongs from around the world, I missed the challenge of singing with Orpheus, a much smaller group which focuses on more complex and less familiar works, with a strong penchant for Renaissance composers. Mostly, I missed the people.
The following season, I returned to the Orpheus Singers.
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A half hour before the concert, they end their warm-up and sit on chairs in the practice room, waiting. A few people are reviewing the more troublesome bars. But not Nora. The situation reminds her of preparing for exams in high school or university. She’d cram in the days before, reviewing and reviewing, but on the morning of an exam, looking at her notes would just confuse her. She had to trust that she was prepared, that her work throughout the semester had given her a solid base and the studying had ingrained the knowledge—just as now, she has to trust that the weeks of rehearsals have solidified her notes and honed the group’s performance. At a certain point, she has to trust in the life force of the choir itself.
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Choristers tend to be very loyal to their choirs, often staying with the same group for years. You get used to the director and bond with the other choir members. There’s a strong sense of belonging. We root for our own. Like being on a sports team.
At the same time, there’s an overwhelming sense of belonging to a larger community.
A while back, Orpheus participated in the Night of Choirs at the Montreal Bach Festival, an annual event that runs all afternoon and evening. A different choir takes the stage every half hour. When it was almost our turn, we lined up in the hall, black binders in hand, hearts beating in anticipation. Another choir that had just performed passed us as they left the stage. We whispered, “You guys were great!” and they mouthed back, “Thanks, good luck!”
And it’s a very big community. According to Choral Canada, 3.5 million Canadians sing in 28,000 choirs across the country.
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Nora glances at the clock: ten minutes to go. At five to eight, the choir will line up and prepare to walk on stage. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, smooths her dress. Beside her, a fellow alto smiles. She smiles back, blushing slightly for no reason.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Eve Krakow is the author of Voice Lessons (Guernica Editions, 2024), a collection of personal essays about a shy introvert’s search to find her voice—as a singer, a writer, a mother, and a human being. Her stories have appeared in Grain, The Nasiona, JMWW, Maisonneuve, and Shy: An Anthology. Eve lives, works, and sings in Montreal.
Website: evekrakow.com
Instagram: @ekrakow
Facebook: @EveKrakowWriter