Back Bench Singer Really ‘Killing It’
'A MATTER OF LAUGH OR DEATH' -- 'When you sing, you pray twice ... except for you, Bill.'
Even though it does not appear on my LinkedIn profile, nor anywhere on my resume, I am an official member of the “Back Bench Boys.” In other words, I am in the bass section of the church choir at my parish, and we sit in the last row, occasionally singing and always whispering smart-aleck comments that only the other choir members can hear.
If you weren’t sure, the word “bass” rhymes with “ace,” not “crass,” even though it’s spelled the same way as the fish. I was curious and did some research online. I discovered that most musical terms are derived from the Italian language, and the word bass comes from the word basso. However, I also discovered that in Italian the word basso is pronounced “BAH-so” and not “BAY-so,” so my online research was a total waste-o of time-o. Maybe they decided to pronounce bass as “base” so people would not call the bass section the “Fish Fellas,” or think that Paul McCartney plays the fish guitar.
Anyway, I’ve been in a few church choirs during the past dozen years or so, and my current choir director says that I am an indispensable asset to our group. This is mostly because I set up the chairs before rehearsal, and if I were not there, the start of rehearsal might be greatly delayed — possibly by as much as 45 seconds.
When it comes to the actual singing part of choir membership, well, let’s just say my most useful talent can be summarized this way: “When in doubt, don’t shout out.”
Regarding singing in church, I like to follow the wisdom of my favorite Old Testament prophet, Clint Eastwood, who said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”
I’ve got a good idea about which notes I can handle, and which notes I should lip-synch. Even though lip-synched notes are, by definition, not contributing anything useful to the overall sound of the choir, they are in my case not contributing anything awful, a scenario that I like to describe as being very useful indeed. And if you ever heard me trying to sing a high E-flat, which comes out of my mouth as a screeching note not found anywhere in the musical world (the actual note I sing is, I believe, an M-squared), you also would describe my lip-synching as a very useful contribution.
We have a few very talented singers in our choir who have 3-octave ranges. I personally have a 6-note range. (Yes, do the math: that’s exactly three-quarters of one octave.) If the bass notes are between a B-flat and an F-sharp, I am absolutely killing it! (The cool definition.) And if the notes are above or below that range, I am absolutely killing it! (The literal definition.)
Not too long ago, I jokingly offered to be a soloist. Surprisingly, our choir director said that if I practiced a lot and learned how to breathe properly, and if I had a vocal chord transplant (she didn’t actually mention this last item out loud, but I’m sure she was thinking it), I might reach the point someday where I could be an occasional soloist. I quickly quoted Clint Eastwood and respectfully requested that she forget we ever had the conversation. This is because I had vivid flashbacks of the one time in my life I sang a solo in church. It was about 12 years ago in a different parish, and our choir was scheduled to sing at the 9:30 Mass. But it was snowing really hard that morning, and at 9:25 there were only about seven people in the church. No one from the choir made it to Mass that morning, except the piano accompanist and myself, and it looked like it was going to be a practically empty building.
Since there were so few people in the church, I asked the piano player if he wanted me to be the cantor; that is, stand at the microphone and lead the congregation in song. I figured, Well, hardly anyone is here, so if I make a fool of myself, who cares?
He thanked me for volunteering, and we spent the next few minutes double-checking which hymns would be sung. Then at 9:29, just before Mass was to begin, I looked up and saw that an additional 90 people had just arrived. I murmured to myself, “Uh oh…” and felt my throat tighten with fear. If you’ve ever tried to sing in public with a fearfully tight throat, you know the only sounds you can make are trembling squeaks and screeches.
Let’s just say it was an interesting experience for everyone involved. Those who made it to church that snowy morning got to witness the first ever lip-synching cantor. Luckily for me, the piano player had a good singing voice and he pretty much did everything himself while I stood nearby silently flapping my gums, covered in flop sweat.
They say humiliation builds character. If so, that morning many years ago filled me with enough character for 10 people.
I appreciate that my current choir director mentioned — without laughing out loud — that I could be a soloist someday. But that’s just not going to happen since I know my limitations. Also, I already have enough character now to last a couple of lifetimes.
# # #
(The humor column “A Matter of Laugh or Death” appeared weekly for 24 years in the Republican-American newspaper, Waterbury, CT.)
HERE ARE LOTS OF EXCITING READING OPTIONS AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD ON KINDLE. Click the links:
A Matter of Laugh of Death (Parenthetical Comments from the Back Row)
A collection of published humor columns.
The Gospel According to Morty - And Other Merry Musings on Faith
A collection of faith essays, including the popular short story: “A Connecticut Yankee in King Jesus’ Court.”
The Memoir of Saint Joseph - A Work of Spiritual Imagination
A plausible tale about the life of the ‘Silent Knight’ of Bethlehem.
When I was in ninth grade our class sang at the High Mass, for funerals, etc. I still remember at least some of the Dies Irae, the Tantum Ergo, Panis Angelicus, etc.
Madame Bullwinkle here, chiming in from the mezzanine of life’s great rehearsal hall. As a longtime alumna of the comeback choir herself (her past is not so much checkered as diversely patterned, like a quilt assembled by committee), Madame knows that throat‑tightened cacophony all too well. There is nothing quite like that moment when one’s vocal cords respond by staging a small but determined mutiny.
Your tale of the lip‑synching cantor, Bill, brought back memories Madame had heroically repressed. She, too, has stood before audience intending to sing and instead produced noises best described as “aspirational.” Solidarity from the soprano‑ish section.
Madame Bullwinkle proposes that you and she adopt—if not as anthems, then at least as mantras—the following:
*Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.
*Success is stumbling from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.* (~Churchill, patron saint of the Back Bench Boys and Girls.)
These have carried Madame through many a musical (and life) misadventure, and she suspects they’d look quite handsome embroidered on a choir robe.
Carry on, Maestro of the M‑squared. Some of us are absolutely killing it in spirit, if not always in pitch. 🍷