Stand Up Straight and Sing! (11 page)

Some church edifices are so celebrated, so historic, that seeing them only from the outside can be a very moving experience. I will not soon forget the time I talked my way into the Sistine Chapel, in Vatican City, Italy, after visiting hours. When, finally, a security guard allowed me through those doors, I stood motionless for a long while just taking in the whole of it all. Through streaming tears, I looked up at a ceiling that was far larger than my art history books had led me to understand: the colors, the majesty of the frescoes, the detail. I can see this as clearly in my mind’s eye today as I did up close that fine afternoon. The security guard understood what I was experiencing and left me to my heightened emotions, my gratitude, and my even higher regard for one Michelangelo.

I recall those same feelings the first time I performed an orchestral concert in the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. I was standing on the built-up stage in front of the altar, at a great distance from but still directly in front of the famous Rose Window, the fifteenth-century masterpiece that had also been such a part of my art appreciation studies. The sight of it was so moving that I found it difficult to focus on anything else. The same goes for the flying buttresses of the cathedral’s exterior. Somehow, I managed to remain quiet in our rehearsals and concentrate on the work at hand.

In England, the historic Canterbury Cathedral was the sacred space where I performed my first televised Christmas concert. I remember visiting the cathedral prior to our first rehearsal there and coming across a stone plaque in the floor, which read
1687.
I thought,
My word, here we have a church that is older than the United States!
There was something magical in that.

So, too, was the way that this particular Christmas concert came to be. I had a great deal of work to do in Europe and wanted a base from which to travel, and so I chose England. Knowing that I would be in Europe during Christmastime, I decided to rent a house in the country where friends might gather and we would have a lovely celebration of the holidays.

Christmas magic is real.

We gathered on Christmas Eve—had a fire ablaze in a large fireplace, and a huge, beautifully appointed tree standing in one corner, feathered underneath with beautifully wrapped packages. We had read some of the New Testament account of the Christmas story, and were planning to sing Christmas carols with the lovely piano that was just there next to the Christmas tree. Dinner was delicious, and some of us were off busily preparing coffee and dessert afterward when, suddenly, someone started playing the piano. The melody was unfamiliar to me, but those of us in food-preparation mode kept to the business at hand.

In no hurry at all, we emerged finally with the last part of our meal prepared. It was then that Jane, a writer, and Don, a composer and arranger, announced that they had written a new Christmas carol, and that it would be called “Jessye’s Carol.” I did not take them seriously, but I was understandably curious as to what they had actually done. Indeed, in the time it took for us to prepare dessert, they had created this song:

Green and silver,

Red and gold.

And a story borne of old;

truth and love and hope abide, this Christmastide.

The dessert waited as we all gathered around the piano to sing this new song! Afterward, I announced to those present: “Okay, from this song, we shall make a Christmas CD.”

And we did; it is called
Christmastide.

The Canterbury Cathedral was a poignant choice for filming this work for television, as it had been an important landmark for American air pilots in World War II; the building gave them a precise calculation of their proximity to the sea and an absolute certainty of their location in the United Kingdom. So an American singing in this cathedral, sparked by a song created by two Brits, had a rather lovely symmetry to the circle of life. I was joined by the American Boychoir of Princeton, New Jersey, and the cathedral’s boys’ choir, who worked so wonderfully well together, with the cathedral’s gothic interior providing several beautiful places in which to record different segments of the program.

We filmed in July, but with these massive edifices and their stone walls—in some places they are more than two feet thick—one could feel the chill, even in high summer, so our saying “Happy Christmas” to one another during that week of work did not seem in the least out of place. The plan was to perform the concert for a live audience and, if necessary, do retakes following the performance, the manner in which many such programs are prepared for television broadcast, generally. Preparation is key, so it goes without saying that our schedule was packed with rehearsals. On one particular day, I was in my “dressing room” during a rehearsal break, going over the words to oh so many songs, when I heard what sounded like a relatively tentative rap on my door. Then a slightly bolder one. I called out for the person to enter, and in walked about five of the young boys from the American boys’ choir. Immediately, I asked if anything was wrong. Right away, one of them answered, “Oh, no! We just wanted to come to visit you.”

Flattered, I invited them in and tried to find enough chairs for everyone. Then one of the boys said, “Um, could we have a hug?”

“Of course!” I said.

So we all gathered around and gave one another big, strong hugs. Mind you, these youngsters were traveling with their chaperones and choir directors, but given their ages—between about seven and twelve—they had most probably not spent an entire week away from familiar surroundings or their parents. It was a perfectly delicious moment—one that will remain in the memory bank always.

This beautiful story has a coda. Fast-forward ten or eleven years: there I am in the Lord & Taylor department store on Fifth Avenue in New York, with two or three days at the most before Christmas, trying to get all of my shopping done in this one afternoon. It was during the traditional workday and offices hadn’t yet closed for the holiday, so the store was not desperately crowded at the time, allowing for two salespeople in the men’s accessories department to help me find classic ties, gym socks, and all those other sundries that one wraps in pretty Christmas paper and places under the tree. In my shopping flurry, I spotted a beautiful young man in a lovely winter coat, carrying a briefcase, and to my surprise he was headed straight for me. He stopped just a few feet from where I was standing, placed his briefcase on the floor, and asked, “Do you still give hugs?”

Now this, coming from such a gorgeous young man, caused me to have to gather my composure. “Now, this isn’t fair,” I said finally. “Tell me to which of my pals you are related. Come now, whose son are you?”

That beautiful smile reached across his face. “No, it’s not that. The time that I had a hug from you was in your dressing room in the Canterbury Cathedral in England.”

I beamed. And he and I had a grand, grand hug, this old acquaintance, who was now at university with his eye on attending law school. After more talk of our memories of Canterbury, he took his leave.

Talk about the magic of Christmas!

I have had similar emotional experiences singing in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, and in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and Church of St. Ignatius Loyola, both in New York City, though the latter two were for much more somber occasions. My memory of St. Ignatius Loyola begins in the basement level of the church, where we gathered early one crisp, sunny morning. There were logistics to be reiterated and technical checks to perform. Media crews were everywhere. Organizers were busy behind the scenes, making sure that protocol was followed in every detail, as befitting a state funeral. After all, America’s very own “royal” was to be memorialized: the stunning Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

It was her sister, Lee Radziwill, who had contacted me on behalf of the family: they were well aware of my fondness for Mrs. Onassis, and wished me to sing Schubert’s “Ave Maria.” Mrs. Onassis loved music, and dance most particularly, and adored talking with artists and being present for performances. Naturally, I was honored to have been asked to be a part of this celebration of the life of such a beloved person—one who had offered her kindness and friendship to me in ways that still make my heart sing.

I had rehearsed “Ave Maria” with the church organist, and was thankful for my practice of yoga, which helped me so very much in maintaining focus and concentration in the midst of all the activity in preparation for the service. Nothing was hurried or breathless; it was just very busy—quietly and methodically so. But I had to draw on something deep, something powerful, to make it through the emotional service. The church was hushed. I remember the presentation by Maurice Tempelsman, Mrs. Onassis’s longtime companion, of the Constantine Cavafy poem “Ithaka.” I still read it from time to time. I will always remember how utterly amazed I was by Caroline and John; they were so poised, so prepared. It was so moving to hear them speak at the service and to watch the splendid manner in which they conducted themselves in such circumstances.

The priest provided a moment of levity during his homily. It was very evident from his remarks that this was a man who knew his parish well. A bright ray of sunshine fell across the congregation as he read the passage from John 14:2: “In my Father’s house are many mansions.
 
.
 
.
 
. I go to prepare a place for you.” The priest then stated that he could only imagine the redecorating of those mansions that would take place in Heaven now that the great Jackie was in attendance. We were all given a moment to exhale, and to remember her as the gifted, remarkable woman who had touched the lives of so many people—even those who knew her only from a great distance.

I was honored to sing for her. I was such an admirer, particularly of the little things, the nuances: I loved the way she pronounced the nickname of the President, as though it were spelled “Jahcke,” with a slight stretch on the “ahcke” part. There was limitless devotion in that pronunciation.

Surely, singing at the memorial of this much loved First Lady of our country was one of those occasions where I had to remind myself of the reason I was there; I had a job to do. Otherwise, I would not have been able to utter a single note. In those moments, you have to say to yourself,
Sing now, there will be time for a good cry later.

That was 1994. In 2010, we would find ourselves again at St. Ignatius Loyola to say a final goodbye to the magnificent Lena Horne. Again the press was present in significant numbers, and friends from the music world and all other parts of Miss Horne’s rich, fantastic life filled the church. My friend and colleague Audra McDonald sang so beautifully. It was a privilege to be invited to sit with the family and to say goodbye to this adored friend.

My first memory of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is from my time as a student at the University of Michigan. I was in New York City, and had made my way uptown to have dinner with friends—fellow students with whom I was just becoming acquainted—and happened to find myself near the cathedral when who should bound across the street but jazz legend Duke Ellington. Although I had not seen this gorgeous man in person previously, I was certain of who he was from the moment I spotted him. It was 1968. I have since wondered if he could have been on his way to a rehearsal for the second of his three sacred music concerts—a thought that makes my heart smile. Indeed, the famed composer, pianist, and master of the big band premiered his
Second Sacred Concert
at the cathedral that year .
 
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It would be years later that I would have the privilege of singing in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, an honor offered to me on several occasions. One of the first was the memorial for Keith Haring, the graffiti and visual artist who used his artwork to advance his social activism. A friend tasked with organizing Keith’s May 1990 memorial asked me if I would be available to sing at the service, and I was pleased that I had that particular date free in my schedule. I knew of Haring’s work, of course, and had met him “across a crowded room” at some point, but was unaware that he had been such a supporter of my music making. So many young people and ambassadors of the arts filled that stunning space, sending a clear and powerful message about this life taken so young: Keith was loved and admired and respected. It was my honor to add to that message by lifting my voice in celebration of his life.

Three years later, I would find myself in this same sacred space for yet another memorial, one that held special significance for me: the funeral service of Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall.

When my siblings and I were kids, my parents would speak of illustrious African Americans as if they knew them personally. They would relay news of these individuals from television, newspaper, or radio reports with such pride and earnestness that you would have thought them to be speaking of kin or, at the very least, members of our church or small community. It was all present and natural. We were made to feel that icons like Jackie Robinson, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Miss Rosa Parks—each of them—were close to us.

Which is why the name Thurgood Marshall was as familiar to me as any of the names that made up our community, our world. He meant something to my family, to me, personally. And so of course I did not hesitate when Justice Marshall’s family asked me to sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” at his memorial service.

Having contemplated the deep meaning of this hymn and its significance to the life work of Justice Marshall, I pondered the manner in which I should present the piece. And for the first and only time in my professional singing life, I accompanied myself with a tambourine. Considering the citizens whose plights drove the actions of this great man, simplicity was to be the order of the day, a tambourine more fitting, more suitable, more appropriate than the tremendous organ of the cathedral. I wished to serve simply as a conduit for the hymn’s words. I was so honored to be there.