It’s not easy being a clueless singer in a state where people love participating in choirs, musicals and acapella singing. My greatest humiliations have occurred, in fact, when people expected me to jump right in and sing competently—like any other Utahn.
My earliest moment of shame came during the dress rehearsal for the Christmas pageant at Farmington Elementary, back in 1974. Our second-grade teacher, a stout woman who wore olive-green pantsuits, scolded me in front of the entire school for simply singing off key to “Silent Night.” OK, and also for playing air drums with reindeer antlers using the wrong words--a clever parody about silent flatulence.
As a chunky 12-year old, I was required to take singing lessons after being accidentally cast in a significant role in “Aurelia!” (a musical about the woman who organized the first LDS primary). During my first lesson, the instructor (a theatre guy in his 30s) asked me to sing along to some taped music (maybe from Oklahoma?). Eager to impress, I affected a Pavorati-like, operatic persona, and belted out the song with such naïve gusto and dramatic vibrato that the teacher had an involuntary laughing attack. The lesson went downhill from there since he kept lapsing into suppressed giggles and snorts. He was still weeping and apologizing as my mom pulled up in our old station wagon. Humiliated—like any misunderstood prodigy would be—I refused to go back.
My next low point came when I was an LDS missionary in Southern France. The local bishop, assuming that all people from Utah were musically inclined, asked me to organize a number for an upcoming fireside. Too afraid to say no (and hoping that maybe a miracle would occur), I agreed. Our district (six elders and two sisters) was untalented, but with a full week to practice, we were ready to sing “A Child’s Prayer” in simple two-part harmony.
On the night of the performance, however, we imploded in dramatic fashion. The trouble started when one of the elders—an oversized fellow who played football for the University of Utah—lost his nerve and retreated to a single, gravelly note that he repeated over and over. His droning pulled the rest of us off course like a leaden anchor, and with voices quavering, each of us set off to wander through a totally different musical wilderness, seeking for tunes that were never found. The audience looked on in awed fascination—unclear on whether this was a disaster or a brilliant work of atonal performance art.
In my early 40s I tried to join a church choir. My spirit was crushed again, nevertheless, by the small, woman in her 80s who ruled over those middle-aged singers with an iron, albeit somewhat shaky, fist. I quit after she publicly chewed me out for being the lone tenor who was continually flat--which was slightly confusing since I thought I was a baritone.
Another time, in my mid-40s I agreed to perform in a barbershop quartet at a Christmas party (three wise men and a shepherd). It went poorly and I was clearly the weak link of the group. It should be noted, however, that I had the disadvantage of wearing an undersized costume that constricted my voice: a brown, tubular tunic that my kids said made me look like a stuffed sausage.
Several years ago I thought I had hung up my choir robe for good; but then, at the end of church one day, a sweet lady sitting in front of me turned around and whispered, “Brother Soper, I never knew you had such a deep and beautiful baritone voice! I relished listening to you throughout the meeting!" At first, her compliment confused me since I hadn’t been singing with that much energy—and besides, wasn’t I supposed to be a tenor? But her enthusiasm was contagious and I started to get a little excited. "Wow,” I thought, “maybe I am a talented singer after all—I just haven’t been given a fair chance!"
That delusional reverie lasted for about two hours. As we were eating dinner, and I was about to announce my triumphant return to the world of confident singers, our preteen son said, “Hey, who was that guy on the row in back of us today with the really deep singing voice?” And then it became painfully clear: Brother Flinders, a high councilman visiting from the stake, had been sitting directly behind me—and apparently his voice was so rich and strong that it both drowned me out, and convinced the sister in front of me that I was the virtuoso.
So that’s it for me. Count me out if you’re recruiting for a local musical, organizing a choir, or forming an acapella group--unless, I suppose, you need someone to play air drums while dressed as a giant bratwurst. I could do that.
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