Because who has the time, right?

Back in 2010, I wrote about the News & Observer's coverage of Drive-thru Easter at two NC churches, and I proposed that the Chosen People keep pace with a Drive-thru Seder. That hasn't happened yet, as far as I know, but thanks to an N&O report on Drive-thru Ash Wednesday, I'm reminded that there are still 5.5 weeks for synagogues to prepare to keep up with the Joneses. "Next This year, within driving distance!"

(Revisiting those old blog posts, I am disappointed to discover that the online presence of newspaper articles is apparently less than seven years. That should teach me to write in more detail rather than rely on links, but I'm a slow learner, as this post attests.)

Goofus and Gallant join the youth choir

A few months ago, I became the very lucky inheritor of two big boxes of organ music when a friend helped her mom (a retired organist) downsize. I've enjoyed using many of the scores since then, but it wasn't until this morning that I got around to looking through a file folder of loose-leaf materials. I'm positively giddy about a wonderful find therein: four Goofus and Gallant-style illustrations, dating from about 1963, that use trite, pedantic musical snippets to instruct pimply, reluctant teens in in the proper decorum for Church Youth Choir. The pictures are numbered 1, 2, 4, and 8, so I'm clearly missing at least numbers 3, 5, 6, and 7, which, as we shall see, is a shame.

We begin with pedagogical illustration #1:

For those of you who do not read music, the hand-written tune at the top uses the same melody as "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush." All together now, children: "Which is the way to start the year?" Certainly not like poor Goofus on the left. He has a ripped shirt, and patched trousers that are too long for him and thus rolled up too much at the ankles. That's no way to dress for choir! Also, he can't read his music because he left his folder on the floor at the end of choir season last spring. His attitude problem is evidenced by a frown (although if we want to give him the benefit of the doubt, perhaps he's justifiably ticked off that the illustrator has put a downward stem on the wrong side of the C in the second measure of the annoying song). Young Gallant, in contrast, is smiling and enthusiastic. He is holding his music slightly off to the side, so he can read the score and simultaneously watch the well-prepared cheerful choir director. His pants fit (and what a fine, ironed crease they have!) as does his clean button-down shirt with the pocket protector. His belt is cinched tightly, helping him hang onto his youthful soprano tessitura just long enough to sing the solo opening verse of "Once In Royal David's City" one last Christmas Eve.

Here's pedagogical sketch #2:

Everyone together now: "Which is the way to learn our songs?" On the bright side, both Goofus and Gallant have become crew-cut blonds, increasing their trustworthiness, but oh dear!--now Goofus is slouching. His cuffs are still too big, he's ignoring the choir director, and he's frowning sullenly at his music (although perhaps that pouty lower lip expresses consternation that the pedantic illustrator forgot to include the correct key signature in the cutesy ditty). He's also going to tip his chair over backward in a minute. (Because the rest of the choir is filled with Gallants, that calamity will be met with polite but awkward silence, rather than loud guffaws). Brown-nosing Gallant, meanwhile, sits at attention in his uncomfortable folding chair. He looks anxious because he is working so diligently to sightread well, lest he disappoint his kind and musically meticulous choir director.

Pedagogical picture #4:

What is in Goofus's mouth? Is that a hymnal? Goofus is going to lose some of his teeth doing that, but even damaged teeth won't get him out of choir. "Which is the way to be on time?," we attempt to sing in unison. Goofus probably would have been on time had the illustrator not trashed the meter in the first measure: 7-8 time is OK for Bernstein, but has no place in 1963 Youth Choir! Gallant, meanwhile, remains blissfully oblivious, not even noticing the key signature is wrong. What key signature has just an A flat? None of the standard Western keys, that's for sure. What kind of music is this choir singing?

Last but not least, pedagogical ditty #8:

"Which one is making the director mad?" Things have gone downhill fast (what did we miss in pictures 5 through 7?). Both Goofus and Gallant are shocked--shocked!--that they have to fit ten syllables into eight notes, and that whoever set the text put an unstressed syllable on a downbeat. For Heaven's sake, it's di-REC-tor, not DI-rec-tor. Goofus, in his disbelief, has let his score fall to his side, and even Gallant (who has let his hair return to its natural dark brown) is covering his book with his arm and refusing to sing.

My choir, of course, is filled with normal human beings rather than archetypes. When I showed them these treasures this morning, they didn't quite understand why I found them so uproariously funny, but I will post them on the music room door anyway for everyone's edification.

How to jubilate with propriety

Cultural differences: http://wadlstrumpf.blogspot.com/2011/07/how-to-jubilate-with-propriety.html

Thankful for the little things

Look what the Solstice Elk brought S!

All lit up

I spent the last week pretending I had winter allergies, eventually acknowledging I had a nasty cold, and getting out of bed only long enough to play for multiple Christmas Eve and Christmas Day services. Being sick always makes me appreciate the little things, like having a husband who makes the world's best matzo ball soup, and a son who enjoys playing nurse; like dwelling with a silky, easy-purring black cat who curls up with me all day in bed; and like experiencing sickness-induced spontaneous Christmas Day nosebleeds that begin during the spoken creed rather than during the accompanied liturgy (and like having sufficient tissues on hand, thanks to the cold; oh, and like not getting blood all over my face or having to sneeze; and like having a nice big grand piano to hide behind until it's all over).

Drive-thru follow-up

The whole Drive-Thru Easter thang has me wondering why Christians should have all the fun. OK, so Westwood Baptist in Cary explicitly avoided labeling their production "fun" because, after all, "it is a crucifixion," but Duke Memorial Baptist Church in Spring Hope, NC, didn't hesitate to advertise the pleasurable aspects of its similar event, inviting people to "Come out and re-live the final week of Christ! Enjoy it from the comfort of your car!"

This morning I started thinking about my own religious upbringing, and about what we Jews might do to compete with the Easter Bunny, marshmallow Peeps, and Drive-Thru Crucifixions, and suddenly it popped into my head: the vast, untapped potential of the Drive-Thru Seder, American style! ("The original Last Supper, updated to accommodate the hustle and bustle of modern life!") Would the Jews have bothered slogging between the parted waters of the Red Sea if they could have driven out of Egypt instead? And why wander in the desert for forty years, when we've got GPS and iPhones? Surely G*d understands that three hours is a long time for a meal these days.

With the Drive-Thru Seder, you can be assured that this night really will be different from all other nights, as you and your family cruise comfortably from one plague to the next: Blood! Frogs! Lice! Wild beasts! Pestilence! Boils! Hail! Locusts! Darkness! Death of the firstborn! Pull into the parking lot, roll down your windows, tilt your seats back, and enjoy a sampler plate of deep-fried Maror, Charoset, Zeroa, Karpas, Baytzah, and optional Chazeret on-a-stick, brought to you by one of our friendly car-hops. Wash it down with a few well-paced sips of grape juice (Mogen David kosher concord wine available in wet counties only), then pop the trunk for the prophet Elijah, and you're ready to roll! Your children will delight in hiding the Afikomen under the front seat amongst the loose change, candy wrappers, and Cheerios. Of course, no Seder would be complete without joyously celebrating G*d's liberation of His chosen people with a rousing chorus of Dayenu on car horns. "Next year within driving distance!"

A gift for the Germans

When we lived in Freiburg im Breisgau, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany, last fall, I blogged regularly about our experiences, almost always from the perspective of a stranger in a strange land. There was much to priase: gun control, clean public restrooms, a functioning multi-party political system, bucolic scenery, walkability, public health care, architecture, art. There was much to feel distressed about: the shadow of the Holocaust, alienated teenagers who beat up strangers on subways, neo-Nazis. And there was much to poke fun at: pop music (good news! "Aloha He, Stern der Suedsee," by the group Die Flippers, is back on youtube.com!), the bizarre and remarkable consistency of Brotzeit menus from one Bavarian restaurant to the next, regional dialects, adult men who pretend to be cowboys on their play ranch near IKEA, and people who vacuum their sidewalks in the fall and shovel snow off of them before dawn in the winter.

Today, to show my appreciation for all those quintessentially German experiences, I offer a gift in return: something quintessentially American. Indeed, it has "Made in the USA" written all over it in proud, indelible ink. Into which category--praiseworthy, distressworthy*, pokefunworthy*--will the inquiring German tourist place it?

We have before us, on this Easter eve, Westwood Baptist Church, in nearby Cary, North Carolina. Too busy shopping at Wal-Mart and Starbucks to properly contemplate how Jesus Christ died on the cross for your sins? Thanks to Westwood's Drive-Thru Easter, you can hear and see the Passion from the comfort of your very own air-conditioned SUV! Church members enact six scenes of the season, beginning with Christ's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem and ending with His Resurrection (for which, reports the Raleigh News and Observer, "Jesus' tomb is fashioned out of the church's Dumpster area, a dark sheet, and a toy pool made to look like a boulder").

Germany, of course, has the famous Oberammergau Passion Play, performed at least once a decade over the past 376 years as a way of thanking God for sparing the town from the bubonic plague in 1633. This year's cast numbers around 2,000--about half the population of Oberammergau. But the play lasts five hours, not including a three hour dinner break, and you actually have to get out of your car for it. Plus, all the stores are closed by the time it's over. So inefficient. In the U.S., it's all about convenience. At Westwood, you get to enjoy "almost an instant worship experience," and you're already in position to drive somewhere else as soon as you're done.

*Neither "distressworthy" nor "pokefunworthy" are real words in English, though I'm sure the German language can come up with legitimate one-word translations for both.

Salvation is created

This spring has been a little insane. I have two part-time jobs that constitute official Work, plus a teeny tiny pottery teaching gig that constitutes official Recreation. My organ job is the Work that nourishes and sustains me. Alas, it's getting short shrift at the moment, due both to the demands of my other part-time job and to my aging brain's inability to focus on a bazillion different things at once, the way (I like to think) it used to.

Adding to the stress: someone's brilliant idea, several centuries ago, to precede a big holiday that demands special, festive music--like Easter--with a season that demands extra church services every week, cutting into choir practice time--like Lent. Yes, yes, there's a certain logic to spiritually preparing for the Resurrection, but for the professional church music director, these six weeks are laced with panic.

Thankfully, there come occasional nights like tonight, when, prepared to crumple into a desperate heap, I suddenly learn to breathe again.

Imagine: although Palm Sunday, Holy Week, and Easter loom, only half of the small choir is at rehearsal this evening; the other half is sick, or visiting far-away family, or having assorted joints surgically replaced. I resign myself to the low numbers and plan to make the best of it, when the cavalry unexpectedly arrives: two basses, an alto, and a soprano appear in the doorway, their previous scheduling conflicts resolved, and we're up to a good dozen singers.

I check the upcoming repertoire's vital signs: this Sunday's anthem seems to be in pretty good shape, as do the pieces for Palm Sunday and Good Friday; and the Hallelujah Chorus for Easter Sunday is for all practical purposes memorized. We're going to make it through the home stretch.

But then a disappointed alto asks, "the Hallelujah Chorus? That's all we're singing for Easter?" Usually we sing two pieces, but between my aging brain and the reduced rehearsal time, I've been grateful just to stay afloat lately. "Yes," I say with manufactured confidence, "that's all."

As I say it, I hear a flutter behind me. An unrehearsed anthem, still tucked in its folder on the piano, is calling to me. "I am one of the most gorgeous, luscious, goosebump-inducing sacred compositions ever written," it says, "and I am seasonally appropriate. Rehearse me now."

"Stop it," I reply telepathically, "you're a six-part anthem, and we barely have enough folks for the four-part stuff these days."

But the anthem doesn't listen: "Rehearse me," it says. "You know you want to."

And so I sigh skeptically and distribute it to the singers, who pick up on my tentativeness. They take one look and become skeptical too. Everyone vaguely recognizes the title page, but only two people claim to remember that we sang the piece three years ago.

They shake their heads, but we try it out anyway--and the metaphorical gray clouds hovering in the choir loft magically dissipate. In the beginning, sound rumbles out of the primordial depths--pianissimo, rich, resonant. And then there is light, so radiant and exquisite that it makes you want to cry. Salvation is created in the midst of the earth. Alleluia. The music enacts the text. Everyone is stunned by their sonorousness.

"Told you," says the anthem, who has just moved from an indeterminate, distant, if-we-can-manage-to-learn-this-in-time Sunday to top Easter billing.

Saturday night dreams

My very first regular church gig was at a Catholic church in Madison, Wisconsin. Until I auditioned, I had never touched an organ. "Church Musician" certainly wasn't a career path I had ever considered while we were lighting the Hanukkah candles at home, but I needed a job and the church needed a capable sight-reader. It was a match made in...well, Madison, but I think I said that already.

The church had three services every Sunday morning, the earliest beginning at 8:00 a.m. In the winter, 8:00 was pre-dawn. So it didn't take long for the dreams to start:

I had overslept: it was 8:40, the first service would be over in twenty minutes. I leapt out of bed in a panic and ran to church, naked, through the rain, striving to move forward even as the wind and viscous air held me back. I arrived inside the dimly lit church just before the final verse of the third hymn. The organ loft had disappeared, and the console was situated in the middle of the mostly empty theater seats (upholstered in burgundy velvet), leaving me exposed (so to speak) as I finally slid onto the bench in my underwear (not sure where the clothes came from, but I was happy to take what I could get). Yet no one noticed my embarrassed entrance: the congregation had their eyes on the altar and their voices raised to Heaven. There was no time to leaf through the hymnal--the second verse was almost over--hurry, hurry! Thank goodness I still had perfect pitch back then. I immediately recognized the key of the hymn, but--oh curse you, you crappy electropneumatic Austin!--the organ was out of tune, a full quarter tone sharp, so that when I joined in on the last verse (timing my entrance so it would be as subtle as possible), the entire congregation took note and turned to scowl at me.

Eventually, I found a cure for the recurring dream. To this day, I set two alarm clocks before I go to bed on Saturday nights: an electric one and a battery powered one. Neither is sufficient on its own, for there's always a risk the power will go out or the batteries will die. The electric clock has two different alarms that can be set independently, and it sits next to my bed. The battery powered clock sits across the room to prevent snooze-button accidents.

Tomorrow morning I will play my first church service since our return to the U.S. It's a rare one-service Sunday. I won't be late until 10:01, and the tail end of jetlag will be on my side. Nonetheless, I know what I'll be dreaming about tonight.