Pre Festive-Frenzy

The Christmas-related busyness has begun. 

The lead up to this year's celebrations coincides with the one year anniversary of moving into my flat. I commemorate the occasion by making my surroundings suitably and tastefully festive.

My choir’s unofficial tour of the Alsace region continues into December. We have two shows scheduled the second week of the month.

Members’ turnout is starting to diminish, including musical director Kiasi, whose day-job commitments call him away.

That Saturday, it’s a joint performance with Voix Solidaire; another community choir. Their MD, Richard, happens to be one of the founding members of HRGS (he is quite keen to stress the connection). The event is confusingly called a telethon. Apparently, in France these aren’t necessarily the televised fundraisers of yesteryear where celebrities pretend to take donations over the phone. It’s just a straightforward charity gig.

Members of VS make encouraging noises whilst we run through the night’s repertoire (still no Christmas songs). The two choirs are to collaborate on a couple of numbers.

Assistant choir director, Evan reminds us that it’s not the size of the choir, but the heart (it’s a play on words that works better in French). Still, he’s struggling. With Kiasi away, he can’t sing with the tenors who are especially thin on the ground. It’s true that we can produce a good sound with few people but it depends on who has shown up. Some have sharper musical sensibilities than others.

It’s showtime. We open with a combined performance of a traditional East African chorus. HRGS then leave the stage to let VS continue, taking our seats in the front row. A couple of the veteran members (now on maternity leave) are in the audience. I'm anxious to impress. I don’t want them to think the standard has deteriorated because of the newbies.

VS are a choir in the loosest sense of the word. Apart from Richard occasionally assisting us with his trusty bass and a gamely tenor (whom I wish we could poach), the other members have either forgotten their harmonies or didn’t have a concept of them in the first place. To make matters worse they swipe one of our medleys, butcher it and have the nerve to invite us on stage to partake in the carnage.

I can’t speak for the rest of the choir but I lose my sang-froid after that. My concentration is all over the place and my vocal range compromised by a cold. The rest of the choir isn’t on the best form either. Evan ditches one of the numbers on which I was meant to do a duet with fellow soprano Louise. He opts instead for some tunes for which we don’t have enough personnel to do justice.  One of the contraltos is off-key. He’s also having difficulty pitching us correctly. Too many false starts. Kiasi manifests towards the end. The mortification is complete. I leave straight after the show. It’s the worst performance since I joined the choir.

Or so I think, until the next day when do another telethon.

There are fewer of us. No Kiasi again. The pitching is still all over the place. Evan makes the mistake of giving a soprano solo to a contralto that is not a soloist and has a limited range. The result is strangled. A fellow new member is forcing herself to sing soprano when she’d sit more comfortably at a lower range. Another soprano descends into a fit of giggles and has to be reprimanded. It’s the first time I’ve seen Evan genuinely upset. My cold has worsened and my voice is unreliable. I’m trying to fill in the harmony gaps for missing members but find it hard at the best of times to project my bottom range.

Oh well. At least we’re given free cake and drinks at the end. The car journeys are fun too. En route to and from Strasbourg we sing along to Christine & the Queens (Evan is a fellow fan) and discuss the latest twists and turns of the Gilet Jaune movement that has taken over France. The choir is a good litmus test for Macron’s failing appeal; if it were ever there. He’s not popular, even amongst those who I assumed weren't politically radical.

Working mum Elisabeth says she doesn’t approve of the violence. However, she understands the why the motley movement protests against the escalating cost of living and the French president's seeming indifference. She and her family are just about keeping their head above water, she says. Besides, she adds, Macron only started to take the campaign seriously when it turned violent. 

It doesn’t surprise me that chickens have come home to roost. I never trusted former banker Macron and his third way approach. We’d seen it all before in the UK and where it leads. Nonetheless, any triumph I feel that Macron’s admirers across the Channel have been proved wrong comes at the cost of a frustrated French populace.

The following Friday is jam packed with activity. I have an appraisal in the morning that’s been postponed owing to my manager Lucia’s hectic schedule and, more recently, because of the terrorist attack in the City Centre earlier that week. That afternoon we have our team Christmas lunch and in the evening I’m performing again with HRGS. Despite the delicate security situation, the choir directors want to press ahead with the album fundraiser we had planned.

My appraisal goes fairly well. Lucia is pleased with my progress. One thing remains an issue. I’m still considered too reserved. My colleagues want to see me popping in and out of their offices more often. I challenge this objection as politely as I can. It strikes me as a nonsense. Following my previous appraisal, I’m already making a concerted effort to be more ‘visible’, speaking to colleagues in person rather than always by email and joining in with the odd tea and coffee break.

Lucia thinks I’m shy. I explain this is not the case. I’m just used to a different working culture (less 1984 I should add. I don’t say this).

Lucia suggests I attend one of the courses on working in a multi-cultural environment. I agree reluctantly and sign up. The next one is not until the Autumn 2019. I don’t bloody well need it anyway. I was born and raised in one of the most diverse cities in the world. I’ve worked in organisations far more multicultural than THRO; where I don’t even need both hands to count all the brown employees, excluding manual staff. Without wanting to blow my own cosmopolitan horn, I could teach The Organisation a thing or two about multiculturalism.

After stewing over it, I courteously explain my misgivings to Lucia the following week. To my mild surprise, she doesn’t contradict.

I forgot you came from London, she admits.

The team Christmas lunch is a more subdued (and thankfully economical) affair compared to 2017. There are fewer of us. Sophie doesn’t make her promised cameo. Other staff have moved on, are on mission, on leave or have other engagements. My office mate Daphnia is a saving grace. I feel more at ease speaking with her over my pot roast and tartine (glorified toast, rather than the quiche I have been expecting). She is fuming over what she sees as a callous reaction from some politicians to the death by shoot-out of the perpetrator of Tuesday’s attack, Cherif Chakatt. Only God can judge, she insists.

That evening I make my way through heightened security to St Paul Le Vieux church for the choir’s performance. It’s a welcoming space; far more modern than I expect. As if to make up for the poor turn out of the last couple of performances, the choir is out in full force. There are members present that I’ve only seen sporadically during rehearsals. Better still, Kiasi is free to conduct this evening. He’s been missed. Thanks to his innate abilities and great pitch, he makes choir directing look easier than it obviously is. 

SPLV church (courtesy of Alsace-Lorraine Photos)

He and co-director Evan have planned that we perform our splendid interpretation of Kumbaya as a flash mob. We blend with the audience, begin singing from our seats and gradually make our way to the stage. Considering we haven’t rehearsed it thoroughly, it’s a slick operation. I’m aware of making some errors especially being too hesitant to belt at key moments, given that the choir is scattered around the room and we’re not singing in our usual sections. Nevertheless it’s a transcendent moment; fitting as a homage to Chekatt’s victims. The church acoustics enrich the harmonies. It feels like a dream. I deem the whole performance a success; the best show I’ve done with HRGS.

At the end of the gig, I’m approached by Yvonne. She wants to apologise for earlier putting my nose out of joint. I took umbrage with her overly-inquisitive questions about my origins and comments about my Anglophone accent. It makes me self-conscious.

I’m Nigerian too. I had a feeling we had a similar background.

She is very conciliatory, showing true Christian good will. I relent and explain why I reacted so defensively. I know she means no harm. I can also be quite moody and guarded when I want to be. I keep this part to myself.