Swan Song

“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.

“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.

“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.

“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”

Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.

“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”

Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.

“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”

I went. The moment the choir started singing, I tilted my head a little, closed my eyes, and breathed, “Ohhhhh… It’s this kind of choir.” You know – the real kind of choir – one that makes the rafters ring with every perfectly formed vowel. This was no haphazard collection of well-meaning crooners; it was a unit. It was impeccable. It was what a choir is supposed to be.

I called the director the next day. “Come to my house right now,” he said briskly. “190 Dufferin Street.”

I warbled some desperate “oohs” and “aahs” in the car on the way there. I trembled through some Handel that I hadn’t sung in fifteen years. I wrung my hands pathetically. “Okay. You’re in,” he barked. And that’s how it all began.

After my first rehearsal, I announced to the world that I had found my niche. These were my people. I had found a home.

The next seven years were full of profound musical moments, fascinating conversations, and enduring human connections.

I remember bawling through the closing chorus of St. Matthew (“In tears of grief, dear Lord, we leave Thee… Lie Thou softly, softly here”), just before laying my own father to rest. “I need to go,” I sniffed. I couldn’t sing. I could barely breathe. Mary Taves put her arm around me and said, “We want you to stay.” And I did.

I remember making tentative inquiries of Ray Dart at the pub, and shortly thereafter being admitted to the English M.A. program at Trent. Ray later became my supervisor as I completed my research internship with the Peterborough Singers – which basically means that he flopped in my living room on a regular basis and speculated eloquently with me about what does and does not make a choir “real.”

I remember the day Syd discovered I could write, and launched me onto a path of freelance writing for newspapers, magazines, and private clients. “You’re a writer,” he said. And so I was.

I remember traipsing around the UK with a bunch of singers by day, and performing evensong with them by night in the inimitable York Minster cathedral. We sang magnificats, ate posset, got lost, and stuffed our suitcases with mounds of beautiful British shoes.

I remember schmoozing with some of Canada’s most prominent classical musicians; eating countless cookies while having my say at board meetings; singing with the dying; and toasting the many choristers who have made Peterborough home for me.

And now here I am at my last rehearsal before heading off to warmer climes for the next two years. I’m going to Casablanca to teach music and hopefully find another choir to occupy my empty Wednesday nights. But it’s hard to imagine finding a gem like the Peterborough Singers anywhere else in the world.

This group has informed my identity not just as a singer, but also as a writer, teacher, leader, and scholar. It has reinforced my initial definition of a “real” choir as a musical being, and has augmented it with qualities of camaraderie and connectedness that extend far beyond our rehearsal space. I am a stronger, happier, and more adventurous person because of the people I’ve met and the music we’ve shared; and even now, as I head overseas, I know that those connections will endure while I am gone.

So thank-you, singers, for a sensational seven years.  I’m leavin’ on the midnight plane to Casa… but I’ll be back, so save a spot for me.