by Beth Armstrong

It was early September, and the high school principal decided to increase school spirit, by having an all-school talent show in a morning assembly in the gym. I had been rehearsing with my chorus, who met daily, for about ten days, which meant we didn’t have much to showcase. However, there was one song we were ready to sing. We stood for the National Anthem, sung by one of my seniors, and sat down in one section of the bleachers. From there we watched a series of mostly mediocre-to-terrible acts. A magician, a juggler, several “air guitar” players in which they pretended to strum and almost destroy a guitar while a recording of a talented artist played. As a performing arts teacher, I cringed when “air guitar” was considered worthy of a talent show.

Sometimes an act was worth sitting through, and to give the teenagers credit, they did settle down and listen when someone presented anything that demonstrated actual talent. We had a great poet that year who was so animated and expressive when reciting his work, that everyone looked forward to his presentation. Eventually, a shy boy named Jason took the stage with an acoustic guitar and a stool. He sat down and played, never looking up from the instrument. After a minute or so, he began to sing. It was an original song No one had ever heard Jason sing, and few had heard him play. He was a boy who kept to himself. Everyone got very quiet. He was good. And so was his song.

I turned to the girls I was sitting next to and asked, “Who is that?”

“Jason. He’s awesome.”

“He sure is. And why, may I ask, is he not in chorus?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know him very well.”

“Well, go get him.”

Later in the assembly, the chorus took the stage and sang our one song, which was a pop-inspired arrangement of “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” The high school kids liked it. We were, if not a hit, at least accepted.

The girls kept their word and spoke to Jason about chorus class, and the next day, a little late, Jason came into our classroom while we were warming up. He apologized for being late but explained he had been to Guidance to get his schedule changed so he could take the class. I put him in the back row of the baritone section and continued my class.

I had decided to teach the class a song I had recently learned called Yonder Come Day. Its origins are the Gullah-Geechee culture in the Georgia Sea Islands. Thus the “original” version of the song is unknown, and we must rely on arrangers who have researched appropriate performance protocols. Yonder Come Day has three distinct lines, each completely different from the other two, but sung together, form a joyous and rhythmic chant. For singers who are not accustomed to working in a group, singing in harmony parts is quite challenging, and Yonder Come Day is a great way to get folks to sing in what sounds like harmony, but is really three melodies that sound good together. By its very nature, it should be sung many times over, and the ending should be slowed way down. It is in the ending that a soloist is encouraged to improvise some kind of “wail” while the chorus holds an unresolved chord. The director follows the lead of the soloist and holds the choir until the soloist is finished. Thus, there are no two identical performances.

The choir loved Yonder Come Day instantly. I knew this piece would qualify as what I like to call “instant music.” I use such pieces when I think it is important for a group to experience success without too much effort. It bonds them to each other and to the director, to the song, and to the magic that happens in chorus. And with a song like that, it can happen in one high school class period.

Jason was quiet and attentive but showed no affect. He was singing but I couldn’t hear him or any other individual voice. Once we had the three parts solidly in play, I introduced the concept of the ending, which required someone to volunteer to try the improvised solo. This is a delicate moment in a chorus, especially with self-conscious teenagers, especially in September, when they haven’t decided whether they can trust me or their classmates. Improvising a solo is a terrifying prospect for most singers. You need to be able to trust that you are in a safe place.

Jason volunteered.

I said, “Are you sure?” He nodded. So, we started at the beginning, and I put off that ending as long as I thought I could, to build confidence. Finally, looking at the clock and knowing the period would end in a few minutes, I signaled for the held chord from the group and looked at Jason. He was amazing. He improvised a perfect “wail” (in classical music, this would be called a cadenza, but that hardly seems the right word for a Gullah-Geechee song.) He was expressive, appropriate, and totally musical. We ended the song on the perfect in-tune chord, and after a second of silence, the kids cheered – patting him and each other on the back and laughing with the feeling of success. Score one for the teacher. Score one for the shy kid who just found his happy place.

After that day, Jason (who, it turned out, wanted to be called Jay) never missed chorus class. He came early and helped set up chairs or risers or sheet music.  Early in October, I mentioned to the class that the deadline for applying to audition for New Hampshire Jazz All-State was approaching. He came to me after class and asked what Jazz All-State was. I explained that there were a small number of high school singers in the state who really enjoyed vocal jazz, so in addition to jazz bands, the state music educators had expanded the festival to include vocalists. But it is a small festival, I explained, and only a few kids get in – the chorus might be about 20 kids from the whole state. He wanted an audition form to take home to his parents. I was a bit concerned, not about his musicianship, but his seeming inability to connect to the other students. He was still painfully shy and almost always quiet. The Jazz All State chorus is very small and a little clique-y. I wondered if they would accept Jay.

Jay auditioned for Jazz All-State, which included a mandatory scat solo performed over a recording of a jazz rhythm section (piano, bass and drums). He had to sing – solo - Gershwin’s I Got Rhythm and after the first verse, scat another sixteen bars. Scatting is improvising on neutral syllables like “sha-be-da” and “doo-bee-doo-bee” and “wee-ahh,” whatever occurs to the singer. It is a sophisticated skill, and it is rare for a high school student to do it well. Not only did Jay get into Jazz All-State, but they gave him one of the coveted scat solos in the concert. He was terrific. His parents were sitting proudly in the front row.

Jay went on to have a wonderful year with us. I gave him all the opportunities I could without letting him overshadow the other kids, many of whom were also very talented. Unfortunately for me, this was Jay’s senior year, so I only had him for about ten months. He told me in May that he had gotten into Keene State College in Keene, NH, where he had decided to major in music. He wanted to be a composer, he told me.

I attended the high school graduation ceremony that year. It was held outdoors in front of the school, on a hot June day where we sat on white plastic folding chairs that felt as if they were slowly sinking into the lawn. The chorus seniors sang a farewell song, and the valedictorian made a predictable but charming speech. The principal was emotional as always, and the senior class was ebullient. It was a good day. As I was walking toward my car after the ceremony ended, an unfamiliar woman approached me. She told me her name and that she was Jay’s stepmother. She was lovely.

“I wonder if you know Jay’s story,” she began.

“No, he doesn’t talk about himself much.”

“Well, when Jay and his older sister were children – Jay was only five – his mother died of cancer, and his dad had to raise the two kids alone until about two years ago when he married me. It’s been hard on their dad. Jay’s sister was seven when they lost their mother, and she immediately took on the role of housewife. She cooked dinners and cleaned the kitchen and packed lunches for herself and her little brother. She was amazing and so mature, and we worried – we still worry – that she lost her childhood. She almost never cried or complained or even spoke of her beloved mom.

“Jay, on the other hand, went almost completely silent. He never spoke of his mother, either, and was obedient, but lost interest in friends. He came home after school and went to his room and played with toys, but soon, his interest was in playing his guitar. He practiced constantly but he didn’t play for us, or anyone. He didn’t want to go to church anymore or to camp, or to play sports with the other kids in the neighborhood. He sort of folded up inside himself. He has always done his schoolwork and gets good grades, but until this year, he never got involved in anything.

“And then he tried out for Jazz All-State. I can’t tell you what that meant to him, and to us. He talked all the way home from the festival and started bringing his guitar downstairs to play new songs for us. He shared the poetry he was writing for lyrics, and we were amazed at how good they were! He has made friends – I should say re-made friends – with a boy on our street and they shoot basketballs in our garage hoop after school. He is excited about college. He is a new person. I want you to know how your class changed our son’s life.”

The magic of group singing. I am a believer.

And I think of Jay every time I teach Yonder Come Day to a group. Which is pretty often.