I’ll admit to loving great big choirs with full orchestras, diva soloists, and hot conductors performing big, fat choral works. 🙂 Screeching out some Verdi choral opera (barely) dressed in ecclesiastical gown (the music, not the choir), getting through a Mahler, bashing out the Bruckner Te Deum, trotting through a Beethoven, rolling through one of Haydn’s many Masses, Gounod, Saint-Saens, Mozart, Schubert, picking through some complicated fugue…. mmmmm. I have quite a bit of affection for big choral works.
There is something quite overwhelming about a live wall of sound like that. I’m not churchy and I am deeply suspicious of organised religion, so I discovered choirs late…. which, really, only made me a born-again chorister for at least two to three years. I mean, I sucked up choral and music knowledge the way I imagine a druggie would snort coke. The camaraderie was a bonus. And “getting” all the choir jokes– that’s fun. Heh.
Singing is portable, and choirs are everywhere. And, yes, sopranos do have the swishiest skirts and the longest hair, altos ARE earthy and sensible, tenors are spoilt, and basses are…. well, ok, I don’t know what basses are. Hairy, apparently. There’s something strangely comforting about going to a choir in some city in almost any part of the world, and finding the same… well, choral archetypes, dynamics, and scripts. And, often, shared repertoire to some extent.
And, of course, there’s the carolling. 🙂 Ah, I miss the carolling. Life has moved on and I no longer sing with a choir, but I am grateful they exist, for they add colour, depth and such vivid experiences to life.