Fram, fram St. Olaf

praise, adoration now and forevermore be thine

The St. Olaf Choir is on tour of the northeastern United States right now. They happened to be singing in a church just a few blocks from my house. My girlfriend and I grabbed tickets.

To readers who are classical musicians in North America, the phrase “St. Olaf Choir” is meaningful. It also might be meaningful if you listened to Prairie Home Companion back in the day, if you are from Minnesota, or if or if you are an American of Norwegian descent. For the rest of you, I’ll fill you in. St. Olaf College is an idyllic Lutheran liberal arts college of 3,000 students, perched on top of a hill on the outskirts of a rural town in southern Minnesota. As the name implies, the college has a strong connection to the Norwegian diaspora of Minnesota; it’s the only school in the United States, as far as I know, where you can major in Norwegian language or Nordic Studies. At St. Olaf College there is a music school. Some of the music curricula are good, some of them are excellent. The flagship choir, a 75-voice ensemble simply called The St. Olaf Choir, is widely considered the best college level choir in the country.

The reason I know about the nuances of the curricula at this tiny Lutheran liberal arts college is because it’s where I went to school many years ago, and where I dropped out because I was crazy. Though I was in the music school, I was never in The St. Olaf Choir. I never auditioned, for several reasons, not least among them that I didn’t like many of the other kids. They knew what they had going for them, being the best in country and all, and they made sure you knew it, too. (One thing I learned at Olaf was that Minnesota Nice doesn’t necessarily include Minnesota Humility.) Ole¹ choir, as it was called colloquially on campus, was widely known to be cultlike. I’m sure that quality arose as much from the sheer amount of time Ole choir spent together (as I recall, they rehearsed every weekday from 5 to 6 pm; even more than that before Christmas Fest) as much as it did from the baptism of specialness and favor by Dr. Anton Armstrong, the conductor. Your first year at Olaf, you’re only allowed to sing in the first year women’s choir or the first year men’s choir, so I sang in the first year women’s choir, which was fine. After that, I wanted to study boring old dead white people Christian music, so I auditioned for the choir on campus that specialized in that. At least, I thought I did. I auditioned for The St. Olaf Chapel Choir. But it turns out that St. Olaf Cantorei was the liturgical one, and the one that Chapel Choir actually specialized in more of the Morten Lauridsen, René Clausen sort of feelings-tickling stuff that I’d been trying to avoid (not because it’s necessarily bad, but because you can sing that kind of repertoire anywhere), or at least they did at the time I was there. That’s ok, though. I learned a lot in Chapel Choir about singing as part of a very large ensemble, singing with orchestras, and not being a little bitch. I was also a member of St. Olaf Chamber Singers, and it was in that ensemble that I had some of my most edifying and fulfilling ensemble experiences at Olaf, because it was there that I got to sing actual early music (baroque, renaissance, and older) with period instruments (including stuff you’ve never heard of before, like the crumhorn and the sackbut), the oldest, deadest, and whitest you can get.

Someone was expressing to me the other day that bragging about your undergrad at any time past your early twenties is one of the more cringe things a person can do. I think I agree, so I hope all this doesn’t come across as bragging. I wasn’t very good at music, to be honest. What I think I’m good at is more musicology and music theory related; I’m better at thinking, talking, and writing about music than I am at actually making music. I also think I would have been a good conductor. And that’s not what I was doing in undergrad. I was supposed to be practicing my instruments for several hours per day, as well as doing my normal coursework and singing in ensembles. I was very bad at doing all these things except the very last, at which I was adequate. My voice is only ok. Though by and large I enjoyed my scholarship at St. Olaf, I didn’t fit in there, where the ideal student is so disciplined that you can’t even see her effort, like a swan gliding serenely across a pond whose furiously paddling feet you can’t see below the surface; where the ideal female voice is rich and creamy but can be made to sound like a little boy’s voice under the duress of Dr. A’s baton²; where you’re supposed to be gentle and kind-sounding to your peers in studio class, but you can talk mad shit behind closed doors, and you can definitely, definitely give lots of cold shoulders. And you’re definitely, definitely, definitely not supposed to rock the boat in any way.

I’ve been reflecting on how weird and ego dystonic it is that I decided to pursue a very strict, regimented, demanding, competitive, and sometimes downright oppressive program and field of study. Of course I did poorly in that environment, like literally of course. The essence of being a good classical musician, as I understand it, is becoming the bitch of the repertoire, your instrument, your teachers, and your peers. It’s absolutely necessary to be submissive and eager to please. Oh, and also you have to work extremely hard. I just don’t have what it takes.

Of course, the reason that I used to be a classical musician is because I love the music. I wanted to share it with others, sure, but mostly what I wanted was to be able to make a life out of the music. One of my silly little dreams was to one day be behind the baton of an ensemble singing this piece, a somewhat minor cantata by 17th century Danish composer and idol of Bach, Dietrich Buxtehude. Yes, really. In fact, that’s still one of my silly little dreams. I would give anything to be in the room with a children’s choir singing that Alleluya section. I wonder what it would take for that to come to pass. It’s not like only people who graduated with honors from conservatory are allowed to make music. But I don’t have much formal conducting training, really, I don’t practice my instruments anymore (I don’t even know where my organ shoes are or if I still have them—I guess I could always play in my socks), and, crucially, I’m kind of crippled by shame as a result of dubious vocal pedagogues from my past. That last element is something people don’t really talk about that much, because, well, people are ashamed, but I know of more than a few erstwhile classical singers in particular who will never sing again because they are literally traumatized by their teachers. It’s easy as a singer to internalize harsh criticisms, because you are your instrument in a literal sense. Also, I’m ashamed because I couldn’t hack it, I went completely out of my mind, and dropped out. But I digress.

I fucking miss classical music, ok? There, I said it. I miss it, I thirst for it, I yearn for it. And it also hurt me pretty badly (like so many things I love and yearn for, make of that what you will). Classical music is special. It’s distinct and distinctive. It’s not like other music, even though most western music can be described using similar terms and according to similar frameworks (harmonics, phrase lengths, etc.). It is like an orthodox religion, with its lengthy initiation process, its rites, its priests and patriarchy, its deep, deep mysteries and secrets. I want to be up close and personal with the secrets! I want my esoteric knowledge back! I want the blessings of the priests! I demand my inherited wisdom tradition, dammit!

I was so excited and so nervous to hear Ole choir again, since the last time they came to my town, which was 5 years ago. When we took our seats in the sold-out³ church venue, I sat anxiously examining the program. I always end up seeing people from my past (you know, back when I was crazy) at these things, and I’m always a bit braced for that. My girlfriend isn’t a classical music person at all. She’s never heard the St. Olaf Choir; before she met me, she had never heard of it. She was being a good sport by coming with me. “I wonder if you’ll be able to tell that they’re good,” I said. Choral music must be so weird to people who don’t do it. The St. Olaf Choir in particular is weird to watch, because not only do they famously hold hands the whole time they’re onstage, but they also sway back and forth in an unchoreographed undulation, which my mother always said made her seasick to watch. Some fifteen minutes before the concert began, a small pit orchestra of student musicians entered the sanctuary and began warming up. My stomach turned over.

Once the last sardinelike audience member had been crammed into the pews, the sanctuary doors closed, and down the side isles to robust applause strutted the royal purple robes. On the risers in the chancel, they joined hands. And in through the side door came Dr. A himself, to peals of heightened applause and some fangirl whooping. On his podium he briefly faced the audience, took a polite bow, faced his choir, and raised his hands.

They really are the best in the country, damn them. They opened with an excerpt from a Bach cantata and I cried and cried. It wasn’t even a sad one. They’re just that good. The signature St. Olaf sound is an extremely pure, unified, clear, tone, with scant vibrato, yet retaining the warmth of the young adult voice. The sopranos float and soar like boy sopranos, like little cherubs, damn them, damn them! No sour grapes.

Of course, the choristers look so young to me now. I shouldn’t damn them, they’re 19 years old. And the St. Olaf touring regimen is more than punishing enough: twelve days of back to back performances of a two hour program, each after having bussed many hours from the last city, and after an hour and a half of warmups and sound checks. As I recall hearing from kids who’d been on tour back when I was a student, neither throwing up and passing out behind the scenes were that uncommon. This year, word on the street (actually, word from the mouth of Dr. A at the end of the concert) is that covid has been passed around the tour bus, though they have been able to keep it under control (?). All this while getting pimped out by their school—ticket sales from the tour are great for St. Olaf’s pocketbook. I guess some of those funds go back into the education of the choristers, so maybe it’s worth it. Ah, to be young again!

1. OH-lee

2. Well, not literally; Dr. A usually doesn’t conduct using a baton.

3. Yes, really. St. Olaf always oversells tickets when it comes to this church. People who had preordered tickets but came late had to be seated in the narthex on folding chairs.