By Roteby Robert Gannon
The whispers are what get to you. People just don't realize that marble floors and tiled walls amplify everything. This is why the organ is on carpet and the younger altar boys wear sneakers under their oversized vestments. You think some of the comments would be shocking, but you get used to them. They aren't any different than what is said outside of the church.
There are worse gigs, I suppose, than playing the funeral mass. It takes some getting used to. Music is the last thing in the plans of grieving parishioners. They don't care how well you play the music. That's not their concern. They just know they're supposed to have it. It's tradition.
A standard cropping of hymns sets the expected tone. Taken out of context, the usual suspects don't seem particularly somber. They're hopeful, even joyous. A true musician understands that the tone of the song changes to reflect the occasion. The voice is rolled into darker colors from the back of the throat and stays true to the melody to compliment the straight and sparse organ arrangement.
The requests are always the same. I don't know what I'd do if the family requested something other than a combination of “Ave Maria,” “Amazing Grace,” and “On Eagle's Wings.” By rote, the next of kin lists the same program every time. If they don't know the name of the song, they recognize the lyrics or melody as what they should have known. The only variation is if they want a male or female singer for the mass.
Everybody always thinks they know more than the singer. Even if they've never sung a right note in their lives, they suddenly become an expert during a funeral mass. Every Matthew, Mary, and Luke is suddenly transformed into Pavarotti, Carlotta, and Farinelli when there's a dead body in the way.
I guess I can't blame them too much. It's an awkward situation. There's an elephant in the room-–the big wooden box--that everyone can see but no one wants to. The musician seems like the only expendable element. You need the priest and the church, the grouping of well-wishers, and the organization of the ceremony to breed familiarity with the great unknown. But the lowly musician? There's always someone better than the man at the organ.
I'd like to think I've developed armor against the whispers. A sense of detachment is almost required for the job. The music is moving enough without the added stress of identifying with the grieving. I think there are worse things that I could do then have notes marked in the score for when I look up, when I sigh, and when I shed a tear. It's no different than filling in for a pit orchestra or playing for auditions. I slap on the right mask, do the job, and get paid. The only difference is where the whispers happen.
I have one rule to protect me from giving up for good: I never perform the music for my own family and friends. There are no exceptions. I did not perform for my grandfather, or my favorite teacher, or my best friend. I would not have made it through the mass. I've been hounded with everything from “it's your job to honor her memory” to “his last wish was for you to sing at his funeral.” I've yet to find truth in what they all always say. The motivation for lying in these cases isn't malicious. These people just know that someone has to do the job, so why not toss the paycheck to someone they know? To them, it's no different than asking their neighbor the plumber to fix a leaky sink.
The sad thing is how often I wish I was sitting at the keys during these more intimate occasions. I always escape to the music. I follow the score in my mind. I know every page turn by heart. My feet glide to the right pedal in perfect unison with the musician collecting my paycheck. I grade their performance on accuracy and interpretation, noting all slips and extraneous ornamentation with the muscular memory of my fingers dancing on the hymnal. Then I look up and remember that the woman at the organ is my former teacher, or the singer had me play for his last two concerts. I'm the person who suggested them for the job. I'm the one who convinced my cousin or uncle or neighbor that they would do a beautiful job. At least I’'m not whispering.
If your average church worth playing at used a piano, the whispers wouldn't be as big a distraction. You really only need to worry about where your hands have to land on the eighty eight keys and how you can turn the page without ruining the song. The organ is a beautiful, thankless beast of an instrument. On a smaller one, you're working with at least three keyboards: two for the hands, one for the feet. If you want to work consistently, you learn to pump the pedals. The pedals are the key to all sacred music. There is a strength to the bass tones that appeals to some ingrained desire in humanity. It is a force felt throughout the body, shooting up from the feet straight to the head and resting in the heart. The music is wrong without it. It's hollow, empty, a shell of what it should be.
That force is what drives a musician to be better. It is power over life itself. If you control the hearts and minds of an audience, you control your own musical destiny. This would be fulfilling in any other venue. At a funeral, the music is overwhelmed by the emotion. It's not possible to look out and see a captivated audience clinging to every note. Their eyes wander to the box laid upon the altar. That is when the whispers start.
Some of the comments are innocent enough. I can accept “How long is this song?” as a valid question. I don't want to work this job any longer than I have to. If it moves too slowly, my mind wanders, my technique falters, and I begin to break away from my practiced demeanor. I can get past “this old song?” or “how old fashioned” because I agree. There is a wealth of underused hymns and composed masses that are far more profound than the trinity of funeral songs. The risk of dreaming is the realization that I'm only performing because I'm needed, not because I'm wanted.
It only gets worse as the mass goes on. The priest has spoken and acknowledged the life and the legacy. I can turn to any face in the church and read their sorrowful recollection of the lost that each person believes is unmatched by anyone else. I start the second song and immediately hear “not again” followed by a canon of “the last singer was better…I can't stand his voice…this guy can't sing…who hired him?” I know they don't actually hate me. This is just part of the job. They all say the same things about everyone else who sits on the organ bench. I've seen them. That doesn't make hearing it any easier.
The worst of it is personal. Someone will inevitably attack me on my rule. “Did you know he refused to sing for his grandfather?” “What a horrible person.” “He wouldn't play for his neighbor but he'll play for a total stranger.” The armor starts to break down then.
Who are they to judge me for how I do my job? They know what I've been through. They have. The ones that cause the trouble are always the ones who saw what happened the only time I broke the rule.
***
My mother passed away five years ago. She did ask me to sing for her funeral. I would never have turn down a wish directly from someone I loved so much. I told her I would sing one song for her service. My best friend would accompany me and my former teacher would cover the rest. She was satisfied with my plan, and that was all that should have mattered.
As soon as the procession began, I could see the judgment in their eyes. Why wasn't I performing the music? I hoped I was just imagining this. I wasn't. Their words quickly matched my suspicions. “He won't even sing for her?” I couldn't walk in with the armor that day. That wasn't a choice. If I remained distant and professional, I’d never have another job in my own parish.
The priest had competition for attention that day. Even he noticed where the attention was focused. The man at the organ was sitting in the pews, eyes frozen on the box he never acknowledged. His face hung blank. His feet didn't slide and his fingers didn't bend. The changes didn't go unnoticed. “He can cry for total strangers but not for his own mother?”
It was my turn to sing. I couldn't even distinguish the whispers from each other. It was judgment day. I nodded at my friend and he began to play. The whispers stopped. I wish they hadn't. My voice slipped out of my mouth, falling toward the congregation. I could barely open my mouth. I felt paralyzed, as if injected by Novocain. My body locked up. I struggled to breathe. Not even the tears could thaw my frozen joints. There was no life in this music. I stumbled away from the organ and sat in the pew. I hadn't even sung one chorus of the hymn.
“That's it?…how unprofessional…why'd he even try…the other guy was much better…I’d never hire him…he can’t even sing…I knew he wouldn't do it…horrible…bad…worthless…”
But they always act nice in the end. Without fail, some member of the family or a close friend will invite you to rejoin the group after the burial for a bite to eat. They will hand you a thank you note with a tip hidden inside and leave you to clean up your gear. The ones who whispered will always fawn over how talented you are, what a beautiful voice you have, or how much you moved them with your performance while balancing a plate of food from a warming tray. They’ll let you know that their niece or cousin is getting married and how they’d love you to sing for the service. They’ll shake your hand or kiss your cheek and thank you for doing so well. They know their parts by heart.
Then you walk away and wait for the next job.
"By Rote" is from the collection By Rote: A Lie in Two Acts, available on Amazon.