05-18-01
When I was in high school, I was in swing choir.
The 'best' singers from the concert choir were recruited into a group called Éschoirè*, and performed a more interesting array of music than the regular choir. Highlights included selections from Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables, and such classics as "Stand By Me", "Iko Iko", and "Twist and Shout".
No one among us had any special training, we were selected based upon what talent with which we were naturally endowed. Of course, we all met for regularly scheduled practices, and all of us practiced singing the songs at home, but that was it. Sometimes when we were headed towards a competition, the instructor would have individuals or small groups come in for extra practice, mostly for solos and other special parts.
The closest we came to dancing was the infrequent box-step, or some jazz-hands and arm-waving.
Our ensembles were either a white pair of pants, a red t-shirt with Éschoirè emblazoned across the front, and red or white shoes, or more formally, a white tuxedo shirt, a black skirt (trousers for the boys), black shoes, nude stockings (black socks for the boys), and a gold lamé bow tie and matching cumberbund.
The main purpose of Éschoirè seemed to be representing our high school at public functions, like singing at the mall and at nursing homes, carolling in the winter, and the occasional church appearance**.
Thursday, I went to Stinkerbell's "Going Out" concert, since she's a graduating senior, and this was her last performance.
Stinkerbell is a member of a group called Happiness, which is essentially a varsity team of highly-skilled, singing cheerleaders, who individually pay over $700 a year for the privilege of being involved.
Apparently, most of the kids in Happiness are professionally-trained. Stinkerbell's been taking singing lessons for a few years, because she wasn't good enough without them to make the grade. I recall that when she was a little kid, she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, so the transformation is nothing less than miraculous. (And I mean that in a nice way, Mom.) Auditioning for the group either lands you a slot in their midst, a polite thank you and a "don't call us, we'll call you", or they stick you in the minor leagues.
During their 30-minute performance, they had more than four costume changes, had three songs involving props -- they had a guillotine for their selection from The Scarlet Pimpernel, and did songs ranging from show tunes to a Prince medley.
It was, perhaps, one of the most amazing things I have ever witnessed in my life. The costumes were hypnotic***, the dancing was sublime, and the singing was very Broadway-musical kind of professional sounding.
However, watching Protégé, their j.v. league of singers, perform was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. The singing itself was so ridiculously overdone, that I had a hard time not bursting out into tears of laughter. Imagine, if you will, Charlotte Church singing pop songs, but using her classical music voice. Now imagine that there are like 50 of her, half of them are boys, their outfits are making you nauseous, and they are singing a Queen medley.
Understand my pain.
At least I got a banana split at Culver's afterwards.
*Dude, I didn't pick the name -- I was just there for the ride.
**It was a Catholic school. We did liturgical singing for some of the local parish's masses, on special occasions.
***Literally. The first ensemble the girls wore was comprised of a red bustier with spaghetti straps, peppered with holographic sequins, and a red skirt decorated with crazy swirls of the same sequins. It looked like some horrible polka outfit gone terribly awry.
