Cuenca

Cuenca, 15 March 2015

Getting to the church on time…

We left the hotel early because I knew I could use the extra time to make the climb to Iglesia de San Pedro, the beautiful octagonal church where the concert was to take place. The walk did not disappoint in either its beauty or the challenge it presented to one as out of shape as I. Streets, alleys, staircases, tunnels, all carved from the same stone the city was built on, we wound our way to the church in one direction – up, and arrived well ahead of the concert time – ahead even of the choir. We decided to go back to the bar we saw on the way for coffee and wine and passed an endless stream of LCHS students in their concert wear and black jackets as they poured from their hotel on the way to the concert. Bonus! There’s Sarah – high five, reluctant fist bump. You could see the embarrassment-algebra in action – is it worse to do the totally uncool fist bump with my geeky mom? Or leave her hanging and risk that she’ll try to do it with my friend behind me? I got my wimpy fist bump along with the indulgent smile only a teen can pull off that says, “Oh mooooom (each “o” is pronounced as it’s own syllable) you embarrass me, but I do love you, so I guess I can suffer in silence” followed by a look of shared understanding and sympathy from the friend next to her.

One of the unexpected pleasures of this trip is the opportunity to actually visit with the other parents. People we see at games and concerts and MPA and CPA meetings, or at the grocery store – but we never seem to have time to do much more than exchange a quick greeting. Here we get to soak in the modern décor of the interior of the bar that belies the ancient exterior and simply breathe. Have more meaningful conversations. Learn, for example, that Jackie’s dad’s passion for history can take you on a journey as he describes a Picasso painting and you realize that it’s the “story” part of history that matters – and wish you could take the class he teaches.

We pulled ourselves from our conversations to head to the church in what we expected to be plenty of time, and arrived to find it packed and standing room only. As we crowded in the back, the door kept pushing against us as more and more people filed into this now small, increasingly intimate space. We were very grateful to the tour guides who had reserved us seats, and our fellow family members who squished together so we could share the limited space.

And then the concert started. Dr. Brookey welcomed the audience and had the choir members go into the aisles to thank people for coming – with a Spanish phrase you know they had practiced as a group just as they had practiced their songs. One of the guides acted as translator and the slightly awkward, playful interaction added to the overall charm. And then the kids started singing…

The concert…

We had heard the music before – some in the Fall concert, more recently in the Spring – so the songs were familiar. But there’s an alchemy of time and place and company that transcends the music. The opening song, Annua Gaudia takes us on a pilgrimage to Andalucia. The voices pulse –and we are galloping through the countryside, lifted by Anthony’s clear tenor, as if calling us to prayer and to battle at the same time. The full choir answers and we are now part of a mass, driving onward. The music echoes our earlier heartbeats as we climbed to the church. The stones of the path we traveled smoothed by a thousand years of pilgrims walking the same walk, being called to the same church. I experience a split in time, both sitting in the church and galloping across the sun-drenched fields of Spain. The tambourine, the hand drum accent each step til at last we arrive back in the church and the thunderous applause of what truly must be every Cuencan, there to listen to a high school choir from suburban Los Angeles pay homage to their heritage.

David’s Lamentation…

I “heard” David’s Lamentation for the first time in that small, crowded, Octagonal church in Cuenca. I was sitting right next to where Dr. Brookey was conducting. The choir filled the whole front of the church, so he was directing from the aisle. All eyes were on him, all breathing in and out from his locus, all attention anchored to that point in the aisle, and all sound converging on that point before reflecting back from the eight magnificent walls. And there I was, a hand’s width to Dr. Brookey’s side, vicariously sharing his experience.

The song starts in subdued, “When David heard that Absalom was slain, he went to his chamber and wept.” Then only the altos, in unison, “And as he wept, he wept and said”, joined by the entire choir, 8-part harmony, at full volume, “OH MY SON!”

A long time ago when I was in the Air Force, some fighter pilots told me (and I can’t swear that this is true – but it’s a great story), that during training maneuvers they practice flying faster than the speed of sound at low altitudes. In the desert area outside the base, there were abandoned shacks, and if performed just right, the pilot could execute a turn around the shack such that the shock waves from the sonic booms converge and blow it to pieces.

Whether true or not, that’s how “Oh my son” felt to me. This wave of sound carried with it the sheer agony of losing a child, the grief, the rage felt by David. The sound literally pierced my heart, striking through me, hitting the walls, bouncing back. It wasn’t just heard, it was felt, deeply and profoundly. The tears were falling before I could even consciously register emotion. If I were allowed to remember only one thing from the entire Spain trip, I would want to remember that moment.

Juxtaposition…

The concert closed with a set of American spirituals and folk songs. While the previous repertoire echoed the sacred music and hymns sung by centuries of the faithful, the playfulness and light of “Unclouded Day” seemed to surprise the church. The walls themselves startled into new life as this music, so different, so full of joy and yet so familiar in spirit bounced through the church. As Lucy’s bell-like soprano floated effortlessly on top of the choir, the church itself rang out.

The traditional ending of an LCHS Concert is “Hear My Prayer.” A song, when sung by your child, in a once-in-a-lifetime setting (or any setting at all if your student is a senior and therefore graduating from the program) seems explicitly designed to elicit tears. Beautiful in it’s own right, through repetition at milestone events, the song evolves to encompass not just the joy of making music, but the privilege of singing with others and lending one’s voice to a group; of learning and growing together as musicians; of the journey from gawky adolescent to confident young adult tempered by a shared respect for the music. As a parent watching my daughter, within a group of parents watching their children, within a church of strangers from another country and culture watching an ephemeral performance, it was profoundly moving.

The people of Cuenca opened their church and their hearts to our students. Thank you.

US concert recordings of the music discussed here are available at http://lchschoral.org/media/digital-downloads/