http://soprano.wetpaint.com 7/17/06

Small Investment Conveys Instant Musical Expertise

Even though I had two small demanding children and had given up hope of ever singing anywhere again except in my church choir, I bought a second copy of 26 Italian Songs and Arias. Why? Because this edition came with a CD and not an audiocassette. How many times when I studied voice had I wished to flip effortlessly among songs, instead of stopping the fast forward, and asking, “Is this Amarilli, Mia Bella?” Most of the accompaniments sounded alike to me. Now, at the touch of a button, I could move among the three arias I had actually studied and practice them whenever I had time.

Ha ha ha. I had time to chauffeur my children from sports practice to school to playground, but not to practice runs and trills. Nonetheless, I took 26 Italian Songs with me to the playground, and copied my notes from the previous edition to the new one. I had paid my music teacher a lot of money for her comments, and I didn’t intend to waste them.

“Oh,” said one of the other mothers. “Are you a musician?” To her, I didn’t look like a soprano. I looked like a musician: I was looking at a page of staffs and notes, and marking on it. For all she could tell, I knew what I was doing. What gave me this authority? A pencil, a common object that every parent treads on daily.

I started to mark my music seriously when I took singing lessons. Why pay my teacher to correct the same mistake week after week? The pencil freed me up to make mistakes. While it didn’t prevent the same errors from occurring regularly, at least it warned me that they were approaching. It allowed me to sing boldly, knowing that if I committed a flagrant musical sin, my penance would be to circle the note and try again.

My choir director pleads with his choir to mark up the music. Maybe half of us do, myself included. I like to alert myself to upcoming trouble spots. I also like to alert myself to upcoming breaths—and to alert the choir director to them as well. “Jim,” I interpose, “I have a breath marked here.” Naturally, he is extremely grateful, and eight times out of ten, he agrees that the breath is appropriate. However, as is his prerogative, even though he suffered us to breathe last time, this time he may change his mind. That is why it is so important to use a pencil, and, almost as important, an eraser. Music gets messy very quickly if you cross out rather than erase the ghosts of previous directions and mistakes.

Once we sang with a guest conductor who had marked up his score. He asked us to borrow his score and copy all his markings into our own with red pencils. This was a great idea, in theory. For the record, may I say that red pencils are too waxy for the job, nearly impossible to erase? I say, stick with the HB, otherwise known as the #2.

Office supply aficionados already know that the Post-It note was invented by a choir director. While self-stick notes may be handy for directors, they are not nearly so useful for ordinary choristers, tending as they do to mask the notes and the words.

One woman in my choir uses Post-It flags to mark each chorale, making her the instant expert when the director needs to know what page to turn to. I admire her organizational skills. It’s amazing what she can do while I am picking up dirty socks and driving children to school.

First sopranos know that 99% of the time they will just sing the top note of the system. As if singing harmony were not enough of a challenge, the lower three voices also have to contend with music that jumps around on the page. Erasable highlighters save the day for a tenor whose notes combine with the basses on one page and are broken out on another, right underneath the two alto lines that may diverge and converge. Theoretically he could use ordinary highlighters, but what happens if he temporarily—or permanently—needs to sing baritone?

The really, really organized singer goes one step further. Instead of highlighter, she uses removeable transparent highlighter tape. The tape gives her score a look of icy perfection to which I can only aspire while I furiously cross out the accidental notes I've given up trying for, and scribble “Watch Jim for the cutoff!!!!” with my rapidly dulling lead.

Had I but time and office supplies enough, my scores, too, would be polychromed things of beauty. I know, though, which is the most valuable, and which confers instant expertise. None of the flags and highlighters add as much to my singing as does my trusty friend, the humble #2 pencil. Now if only I could remember to take it out from my hair before the church service.

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