1969

“The Messiah ”

Christmas 1969

By Charles Moon

     Mom loved music. And, she loved to sing. Of the few times I have ever seen her truly happy, music was usually involved. It was no surprise then, that as the wife of the Reverend Branch, she was one of the choir’s strongest supporters as well as one of the most enthusiastic altos.

      John Maples was no less zealous where the choir was concerned. He was hired as the musical director shortly after Dad had assumed his duty as pastor, most likely at the insistence of mom. It was quite a coup to get Mr. Maples to abandon his retirement from the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra to be our musical director and therefore no surprise that he was given carte blanche to run the program.

      Unlike many other churches in the area, the First Presbyterian Church choir practiced three times a week, sometimes with professional instrumental accompaniment. Both the adult choir and the boys choir were known throughout the county as one of the finest vocal groups ever assembled by a protestant church.

      The schedule was rigorous but rewarding. Monday and Saturday afternoons, the boys choir met for rehearsals in the basement of the church. Wednesday evenings both the adults and the boys met for a group rehearsal. By Sunday, we had gone over the material so many times that we didn’t need the leather folios of sheet music each person carried other than to remind us in what order the hymns were to be sung. Mr. Maples was a compassionate taskmaster, though. He never openly corrected anyone who may have been having trouble with a particular song. If, after several attempts to meet his high standards of excellence, someone was still flat or missing their cues, he diplomatically moved that person to a different position in the choir, claiming that the section was lacking and needed to be bolstered by their particular talents. He never showed disappointment or frustration, no matter how many times we had to repeat the piece to get it right. He was inspirational.

      I learned quickly that being a member of the boys’ choir was more than singing on Sunday. There was a sense of belonging to something important and being needed to complete the group. It was both a privilege and responsibility, and I saw why mom found it so rewarding.

      Mr. Maples took advantage of his choirs as often as possible, with special performances throughout the year. One of his biggest achievements since assuming his role as director were annual holiday performances of the entire “Messiah” by George Frederic Handel.

      Practices for the Messiah, for those who had never performed it in the previous years began as early as September. For those of us who had been in the choir for longer than a year, rehearsals began after Halloween, with an extra day of practice dedicated just to this one performance. This was my second year as a member of the boys’ choir, and, although I didn’t know it at the time, my last.

      The official single two-hour performance of the Messiah was always the Saturday before Christmas day. This year, 1969, we were doing two performances. The traditional Saturday performance was scheduled as usual. For all intents and purposes, however, it was a dress rehearsal for the more important special performance on Christmas day when the whole production was to be professionally recorded.

      There was so much to remember in addition to the music itself. How to walk in those gowns we wore over our street clothes was the least of our concerns. All we had to do was remember not to trip going up the steps to the altar during the processional. Then there was the lecture about what we were supposed to be looking at when we were singing and when we weren’t singing. Do the folders stay open or closed? What if I have to sneeze? How do we know when it’s time to stand and when it’s time to sit? Rehearsals this year were particularly grueling, but Mr. Maples had a way of making all the extra effort seem worthwhile.

      The Saturday performance went off without a hitch. The whole choir seemed confident and relaxed. We knew that even though everyone who came to hear us had bought a ticket, the real test of our ability to sing the praises of God would be on Thursday to the unforgiving medium of audio tape. Mr. Maples stood proudly at the podium in the black robes of a choral conductor and led us through a joyous two-hour celebration of God, music and Christmas. My only difficulty came during the Hallelujah Chorus when there was a rest between “King of Kings” and “Lord of Lords”. I always wanted to rush into the next line and come in early. I had to hold back my enthusiasm and wait for the rest of the choir to sing before I opened my mouth or I surely would have chirped out the next line while the rest of the church waited in total silence. The pause always seemed too long to me, but who was I to argue with Mr. Maples and Handel?

      After Saturday’s concert, the choir held a small party in the basement of the church just for the members and their families. The boys played an irreverent game of tag in the sacristy while the adult members congratulated themselves on their stellar performance, assuring each other we all were as ready as we could be for Thursday. Dad, the pastor of the church and a member of our family, did not attend.

      The performance on Christmas day was scheduled early, before the regular services, in order to keep the audience size small. Mr. Maples told us that we were all supposed to arrive by 7:30 a.m. so that the concert could begin promptly at 8:00. That would conclude the performance in the neighborhood of 10:00 a.m. – plenty of time to prepare the church for the eleven o’clock Christmas service.

      The early start meant we could not open any presents prior to breakfast, and breakfast itself had to be a rushed bowl of cereal. There was a sense of serious excitement for all of the choir members in the Branch house. Terry and I ran about in a state of controlled frenzy while mom took Andy over to the Pullowski’s. By 7:30 we were all in our choir robes pacing nervously around the basement of the church waiting for the arrival of Mr. Maples.

      John Maples clapped his hands twice and, once we were settled into our positions, informed us that everything was ready upstairs. He led us in a slow review of the processional and rehearsed the boys’ section just one more time to make sure our young voices were suitably warmed up so early in the morning. At five minutes before eight o’clock, we marched into the stairwell and arranged ourselves according to height. The smallest pair of soprano boys in front waited behind the swinging oak doors leading into the vestibule at the back of the church while Mr. Maples stood at the end of the line behind the tallest baritones.

      We heard the pipes from the organ softly begin the familiar prelude and then play the processional hymn. The deacon who was acting as usher pulled back the oak doors and secured them with two hooks that attached to brass cleats on the floor. In pairs reminiscent of how Noah loaded the animals onto the ark, the choir marched to the altar and ascended the steps to the reserved pews right below the organ’s massive cylinders.

      As I passed through the doorway, I could see a man wearing headphones seated at a folding table in the rear of the church. He was manipulating knobs and dials on a vast expanse of electronic equipment. Black cables ran from the back of the devices and slithered down the central aisle of the church to a row of microphones on chrome stands waiting for us to perform.

      The distraction was momentary. Each member glanced at the equipment and then snapped their attention to the front of the church making the whole processional seem like a long carnival ride that whipped the riders around a corner. After a longer than usual pause following the processional, Mr. Maples raised his baton and the Messiah began.

      All apprehension quickly melted away as we repeated our impressive Saturday performance almost note for note. The stained glass windows in the high arches surrounding the altar sparkled with the morning sunlight and vibrated from the chorus of joyful voices. Mr. Maples’ gestures were sharper and more animated than I had ever seen them. Everyone’s enthusiasm was feeding his determination and he was giving it right back to us. The concert flowed so smoothly that when we had reached the Hallelujah Chorus, the excitement got the better of me and I failed to restrain myself.

      I took a deep breath after the third repetition of “Lord of Lords” and opened my mouth. I only squeaked out the first half of the first syllable before I realized that I was half a measure too early and the rest of the choir was still silent. I might as well have blown an air horn in the silence. Immediately, the other voices sang on cue without missing a beat or acknowledging my blunder. I shrunk back into the masses of the other boys.

      After the concert, I tried to remain as invisible as possible. Nobody pointed out my mistake, but they didn’t have to. I knew it was there on the tape and I was responsible for ruining the performance.

      Of course I didn’t ruin the performance and nobody ever said a word. The offending chirp was most likely edited out of the final recording and everyone forgot about it. But, this was the last memory I have of Christmas as a child.

      Later that year, Dad resigned his position as minister and we all moved to Auburn, NY where he became the administrator of a nursing home. Andy started grade school and mom went back to work. We became a very middle class family with a very dark holiday tradition. From that point forward, Christmas rituals were performed but rarely celebrated, and, being so distant from the rest of the family, it was a reminder of how isolated we were. Christmas became a very individual experience for me.

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