Bright Lights

I apologize...this is sort of a self-indulgent post. It's long and detailed, and if you're not into music, this may not be your cup of tea. Don't feel obligated. But I wanted to write all of this out simply to preserve the sheer pleasure of the memory it recounts.

I'm sure you're waiting with bated breath to hear how my media fast went, since everyone must be as interested in my life's minutiae as I am. Rest assured, I will subject you to that. But I want to get this down on paper...er, screen...while it's fresh in my mind.

Have I mentioned on this blog that I'm in a band? In the last year or so some friends and I have cobbled together this little group of musicians, and we've gone (in various combinations) to a whole bunch of little venues, including the tea bar, the 4-H fair in Somerset County (twice), and an evening at an awesome little Italian restaurant. It has been a BLAST.

We do have a lousy name. Currently we're known as "Piscataway Joe." There's a story behind that name which is really not worth the retelling. Mostly we just need a new one, but we can't find one we're all excited about. Please feel free to offer ideas.

Last night Piscataway Joe played Nicholas Music Center at Rutgers University. The RCSSA (a group of Chinese international students) was throwing their annual Mid-Autumn Gala, and they invited us to join them again this year.

Nicholas Music Center is an elegant hall (by university standards, at least). The acoustics are fantastic, and there are about 800 plush seats soaring steeply away from the shallow but immaculate stage. The 4-H fair it is not. And the Mid-Autumn Gala is well-attended, so last night hundreds of faces, most of them Chinese students far from their homeland, filled those seats.

We were next to last on the program, so it was about 9:30 by the time we took our turn standing in the near-blackness, waiting for the stage lights to come up. My friends were using the moments of darkness to get their equipment settled. I was using them to try to settle myself in the wake of the adrenaline rush that threatened the steadiness of both my voice and my four-inch heels. I wasn't afraid, per se...just excited. But the adrenaline thing is inconvenient.

I hadn't yet been successful by the time the lights came on, and the next few moments were a blur. The emcee introduced us, I said a few words that I barely heard above the pounding of my heart, and we were ready.

The reason I'm writing this post, really, is that there were a few moments last night that typify moments that are precious to me, and I want to remember them. Forgive me for using this forum to etch them a little further into my memory. But here is moment number one: the endless half-second between when you're ready and when the first note of the introduction begins. It hangs there, brightly lit and full of promise, like the pause at the top of a diver's arc, and it's the moment when you sort of let go (if you can) and allow the experience to unfold in front of you.

Last night I was able to let go...largely, I think, because Rick was playing the intro. Rick is our pastor and our dear friend. If you've been following this blog for a while, you met him when he and his wonderful wife let me change their tire last fall. Besides being an excellent tire-change tutor, he is an extraordinary guitarist with a deep love for music and a deeper love for his Savior. Rick is one of the people in my life whose presence imparts calm and confidence to me. He started playing the lovely opening notes to James Taylor's "Carolina In My Mind," and I felt my heart rate slow as I opened my mouth to sing.

And that's moment number two: the very first note. I am always...every time...surprised by it. Not because it's amazing. Often it's quavery and a little unsure; I am not a phenomenal singer. But that first note, amplified by the sound system and by the adrenaline, and absorbed by the audience in a physics kind of way and in a way less tangible, sounds literally and metaphorically huge. It startles me a little and rockets me into, "Oh. Okay. We're doing this now."

In my mind I'm gone to Carolina. Can't you see the sunshine? Can't you just feel the moon shining?

I wound my way through the first chorus, trying to really see the sunshine and feel the moonlight, knowing that the Mid-Autumn festival (which is all about missing faraway loved ones) is meaningful to this group of expatriates. Rick's skillful accompaniment sort of floated behind me and around me, and the quaver started to smooth out of my voice. We came around the bend out of the first chorus. That's where Joe came in.

My friend Joe (Piscataway Joe himself) has been my partner in crime throughout this entire adventure. He's a tremendous musician, and although these days you'll often find him behind the piano, he seems equally at home holding a guitar, a bass, or drumsticks, among other things. Oh, and he sings. And writes music. Yeah. Joe has extremely high standards when it comes to musical excellence, and high praise from him is hard-earned, but he is easygoing, relaxed, and prone to laughter. He's fun to be with, and he makes me better at this. He came in at the pickup to the first verse with a few quiet notes, then started filling in the chords with the sweet, mellow tones of the beautiful Steinway grand piano. He seasoned the song with his favorite kinds of chords: the ones I don't really understand, with hidden sevenths and seconds and tricks of movement that sound like they're rooted in jazz, but quiet and reflective.

Karen, she's a silver sun; You'd best walk her away and watch it shine...

I will freely admit that I have no idea what that means. But that's the song, and it is gorgeous. Still, there was something tentative left in that first verse. It didn't settle until the second verse, when our other Joe came in.

This Joe is a relative newcomer to our little group. For that reason, I know him the least well, but I made some strides last night by peppering him with questions during our long wait for our rehearsal. What I learned served to confirm what I already thought: he's just a great guy. Joe is young, quiet, unassuming, and extremely modest about his musical ability. He has only been playing the bass for a little while, having volunteered to learn it when our worship team was hurting for bass players last year. When he gets a new piece of music, he looks at it like, "hmmm. Well, we'll see." And then proceeds to play it ably and reliably. Like, every time, as far as I can tell. And that's exactly what he did last night. He filled in the bottom of the sound and gave the song a place to rest and swell.

Ain't no doubt in no one's mind that love's the finest thing around--whisper something soft and kind...

As a side note, for those of you doing the math at home, that makes three remarkable musicians, all of them relaxed, good-natured, and ready and willing to surrender the spotlight to one another. When does that happen? Seriously. I love working with people who love Jesus.

The verses in "Carolina In My Mind" end decisively, reprising the final line of the chorus and sidling comfortably back into the tonic chord. Whatever comes next feels sort of like a new start, and what came next was the second chorus. During the turnaround I took a deep breath, pulled my mic from its stand, and started walking toward the piano as Piscataway Joe leaned in toward his microphone.

And here is moment number three: the moment when the harmony slips into place. When you have a pretty melody line that is suddenly augmented by a spot-on harmony, the beauty of the resulting music is far greater than the sum of its parts. And Joe's harmony was spot-on--clear, precise, and easy--as it generally is, leaving me with a sort of heady exhilaration. It feels sort of like a well-executed dance, with the voices mirroring and circling each other in perfect complement. The one danger is that it tends to make me grin like an idiot. I'm pretty sure that I managed to avoid that last night (though I can't guarantee it), but I'll tell you what...I could have gone on singing that chorus for a long time.

But the song went on, as songs do. We made our way through the third verse, with the tender, beautiful chord progression and bassline that all three of them followed, and through Joe's piano solo, about which he had been nervous but which turned out lovely--lilting and sweet, faithful yet unpredictable.

And that took us to the most poignant of the moments: the bridge, where the song swells and the melody line rises with it and I have to push a little to nail the note. The instruments were at their fullest, and Joe came back in with that spot-on harmony, and it felt just right.

It's with a holy host of others standing 'round me...

By that time I was relaxed and able to fully take in and enjoy the experience: standing there, under the bright lights, in four-inch patent heels and dangly earrings, closing my eyes and leaning in to pour myself out into a microphone in front of hundreds of people, surrounded and joined by dear friends and talented, talented musicians...what did I ever do to deserve this?

God is very good to me.

Someday I won't be able to sing like I do now. And when that day comes I want to have this sweet moment firmly planted in my mind's eye.

I was able to savor that bridge, the final chorus, and the long coda, where I cheated on the A that I was supposed to belt for a while. It was wobbly. I need to learn how to loosen my throat when I'm all worked up. Didn't matter, though, and soon I found myself at the very end, where Joe walked me through the ritard in the quietness of the tag, gently slowing me down where I have a tendency to rush it. He gave me the next-to-last chord and trailed off, leaving me to hold the place in silence for one last moment........until we resolved it and everyone broke into applause.

It wasn't a perfect performance. Certainly not on my end, anyway. And anyone who's actually made it to the end of this post would probably be justified in poking fun at the level of drama I assign to the whole thing. But I can't help it...it just feels full and beautiful and very right, and it fills me with gratitude.

I don't know how long this kind of opportunity will last. Surely I won't be surrounded by these amazing people forever. But for now I will so, so take it. And, I hope, take it with me.