He Sat at the Piano

by Steve Hodge

He, our high school choir director, sat at the piano attempting to play a Bach two-part Invention as we entered the classroom.  Predictable as snow in February, he wore wrinkled grey slacks and a white long-sleeve shirt with tab collar bearing yellowed underarms, the result of sweating through rehearsals as if he were Richard Simmons leading his faithful followers through calisthenics.  His butch-styled hair, circa 1965, glistened under the half-alive fluorescent lights that dangled above his young Clark Kent/Superman face.  As he was a card-carrying proponent of nineteenth-century educational essentialism, we, the students, did our best to tolerate his anachronistic flaws with cheerful respect.  This was our Mr. B.

He commenced class by leading us in vocal exercises.  Fond of scales, Mr. B would take us up to the point that he would see our faces grimace with torture, neck veins swell, boys abruptly slamming into falsetto and girls rivaling civil defense sirens.  This seemed sufficient in establishing or disestablishing the impending outcome of the day’s lesson.  Then, the chastisement would be administered.

On the blackboard were written the musical selections which we would ideally address in our fifty-five-minute rehearsal.  First, we would sing a slow and sustained Renaissance motet, unaccompanied, as performance practice dictated.  With already fatigued voices, the tonal center would invariably drift down by at least one full step from that intended.  As if repetition could correct the problem, he would coerce us through the vaunted motet a half dozen times, each labored reattempt falling more steadily into darker realms of pitch unimaginable.

Frustration dominated the spirits of director and students.  Then, at twenty minutes into rehearsal, Mr. B would go the emergency exit which opened to the second-floor fire escape and allow sub-freezing air into the classroom in an attempt to alter the lethargy of his fatigued flock.

The next run of the motet was on pitch with no thanks to the coldness.  Rather, each appointed section leader knew to deliberately sharp the pitches in order to bring up the pitch level of the other singers who hadn’t the sensitivity to know or appreciate precise intonation.  With reluctance, the wayward singers were herded into the Elysian fields of true pitch. 

Director and choir were happy.  With only five minutes remaining in class, not having worked on the other four selections listed on the day’s agenda, Mr. B mercifully threw a deserving bone to his hungry pack of singers.  We would close by singing “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley,” a morose tale of one who would soon be hung and die.  The choir greeted the selection with reserved appreciation, grateful to depart the sixteenth century in favor of the tolerable music of mid-century Kingston Trio.  Having sung the song with hootenanny vigor, Mr. B would bring us back into his world by informing us as we departed the classroom that we would start rehearsal the next day with the venerable, staid and time-tested Renaissance motet.

We left the classroom, some in tears, the others with moist eyes, singing “Kumbaya,” our testament of suffering, our testament of hope for a better life and faster paced rehearsals.  Mr. B stood by as we exited.  He appeared as a mortician, who valiantly attempted to console mourners that had come to pay their respects. 

Once everyone had departed, Mr. B would again go to the piano where he had been at the start of class.  There he would remain painfully attempting his never perfected Bach two-part Invention as his next victims entered the room.

Bio:
Steve Hodge is a retired college professor. He is a published composer and is known for his contributions to the world of choral music. He holds a doctorate from The University of Colorado.