The Day the Music Died - dedicated to the St. Luke Choir

Today our music died. And part of us died with it, as we all must die a little bit, every day, until it is our turn to go.

Like the proverbial 'fat lady' we in the choir have sung, and it's curtains.

Today we died not just a little bit, we died a lot. And with that lot died not just cherubic hymns and Christmas Kontakia, but whole Divine Liturgies.  With that lot died a humble man--stiff backed and slow to move, ... yet--musically among the most limber, a master craftsman of sound.

With that lot, also, died the delight of Wednesday night rehearsals.

Good bye to Ole and Lena jokes. Good bye to phrases like "If you sing it too smoothly, I will let you know" or "Here is a nickel that says you can't get through that without me stopping you".  Good bye to the endless patience of a man who had worked with the best of the best in Carnegie Hall and yet preferred helping his small choir of unschooled amateurs sound like the angels in heaven.

36 hours before he died, some of his last words to me--spoken through parched lips that were barely able to move -- were, "Lene, the basses, do you hear the basses?" and then he moved his hands as if he were conducting. In his face I caught a glimpse of  that contagious joy that we witnessed Sunday after Sunday whenever he conducted the Divine Liturgy.

Our dear friend has passed on. We will meet him again.... as the hymn says,

"In the sweet by and by  [...]
We shall sing on that beautiful shore
The melodious songs of the blessed;
And our spirits shall sorrow no more"

In the meantime -- we must continue to sing .... until it is so smooth that he lets us know.