This has been a week.
But it's not yet over. Nothing is over. In fact, we're just getting started.
But this sorrow and rage will not inflame us to seek retribution; rather they will inflame our art. Our music will never again be quite the same. This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before. —Leonard Bernstein
This weekend, the great Deke Sharon (you might have heard of his movie, Pitch Perfect) is making music with two hundred singers from across the region, and tonight, they present an epic concert, including the premiere of his latest arrangement, Flowers. (His Music for a Sushi Restaurant is my favorite for the mass choir, though.)
Our audience is guaranteed to laugh, tap their toes, bop along, and have a great time celebrating the joy of music. However, in the grand choral tradition of my mentor Dr. Jeff Johnson, we're gonna make 'em laugh and make 'em cry.
The RiverTones, who are doing an epic job of managing this event, are singing Jennifer Lucy Cook's arrangement of What Was I Made For from the Barbie movie. I'm told that they couldn't finish it when they rehearsed on Wednesday, because of its poignancy for sixteen young women surviving in our current world. Tonight, I sat in on their rehearsal at the end of a long day, and I too found myself falling apart.
I don't know how to feel, but I wanna try...Think I forgot how to be happy, Something I'm not, but something I can be...
The other tearful opportunity on the concert is a bit more personal for me. You see, ten years ago, I met the most amazing person. He was funny and sweet, caring and charming, and to my surprise, he liked me. A few months later, we spent the night in the ER together as he wrestled with the worst case of food poisoning either of us had ever experienced.
After that anxious night, I started writing a lullaby. Something to help him relax, just to know he was loved. The first verse and chorus came easily, but then nothing. I had no idea where to go next. So I'd sing for him what I had every once in a while, and he'd say, "That's nice" and then I'd put it away. Every now and then I'd think about it, but the second verse refused to materialize.
Then, in March of this year, Ariel went to México City to help his sister navigate the beginning stages of dementia. Whe had never been apart for longer than a day or two, so a couple of weeks apart was a bit scary. And then the weeks turned into months as bureaucratic hurdles kept creating new challenges. I went down for a visit in July, and the song came back to my mind. Maybe it doesn't need a second verse. Maybe it just needs a different setting.
Sitting in his sister's dining room, I thought about the love Ariel has shown me, but also the love he has invested in his family. Sending clothes to his cousins, paying for his brother's education, supporting his parents, and now devoting months of his life to a sister who will literally never remember what he did for her. I was sobbing before I had finished the choral arrangement.
It's a simple song, almost too simple. I thought I was just overly sentimental (as I usually am), so I brought it to the University Singers for a second opinion. The notes and rhythms solidified in a couple of weeks, but then the waterworks started flowing. A lost brother, aunt, and grandmother, family tensions, breakups, new relationships, everyone had a connection. Just about every time we've worked on it, someone has had to step out to regain their composure. I just barely held myself together during Thursday's rehearsal. We have much to mourn, but in community and relationship, we find our reason to persevere.
Love is not a sometimes thing, and love is not just for today, but for a thousand sunrises, and many thousands more, I pray.
Look, something tells me that some of my friends could use some good cheer. Maybe also a tearful catharsis. I often say that music allows us to practice living without the risk of dying, and what better way to practice living than to let your emotions loose?
We as a society may have missed an opportunity to thrive, but I believe music and love will help us to do far more than simply survive. Just as Bernstein found hope following the death of his beloved friend and President Kennedy, we must find (and create when necessary) hope following the death of opportunity.
This has been a week.
But it's not yet over. Nothing is over. In fact, we're just getting started.
If you're nearby, join us in Terry Concert Hall at 7:30. If not, tune in via the livestream.
PS. We are also performing Lullaby on the Dance Concert next week with beautifully relevant choreography by Christina Teague-Mann, so if you miss the a cappella version tonight, join us next week for the version with string quartet and piano.
See the score of Lullaby here: https://julianbryson.com/lullaby