Musical Fascism
Once music begins as a subject, it can be very difficult to quit. Music is ubiquitous in this world; music was ubiquitous at the Joseph Smith Academy.
I’m one of those sometimes annoying people who sing too much. In the shower, in the halls, through the tunnel, over the river and through the woods. Jay once thought I might be a little off-balance as strange singing voices wafted through the cinderblocks. He was relieved when he learned I had been rehearsing a sock puppet musical.
I wasn’t the only one singing: Matt and Josh would often break out spontaneously into severe cases of two-part harmony. Sunday evenings we’ld play around with the echoes and reverb in the red linoleum tunnel as we sang the hymns of Zion. After a Rendezvous show we would all walk home singing about meeting at Hotchkiss and Hyde, getting treats at the Lyon Drug store or, with tears in our eyes, farewell Nauvoo.
I remember dancing to Ryan Shupe and the Rubberband’s “Banjo Boy” in an obscure Visitors Center parking lot in Keosauqua, Iowa. (It was either that or go mad in the overly dandelioned lawn. I like dandelions, but that much yellow is sure to drive a man insane. Insane!”) Or Gibby’nd me dancing touch-free to a cartoon alien singing “Don’t Touch Me” between acts of the Talent Show. No matter where we go in this world, music tends to accompany.
But one thing I have never experienced is BYU tunnel singing. Never not once no never. Never have. I understand it takes place Sunday nights near the dorms in one of the tunnels that go under oncampus roads or walkways. I don’t know more of the exact detail of where or when and I am afraid to find out. I have heard tell on several occasions of the fearsome Tunnel Singing Nazis. Tunnel Singing Nazis (as you might imagine) scare me.
I hear that they scream and yell and demean those who have humbly gathered to sing hymns. “You vill sing it my vay! You vill sing zis song! In ze zree-part harmony! Not more! Only zree! Ach!”
The BYU Tunnel Singing Nazis are hardcore. They, as I have said, scare me. And I’ve never even seen one in action.
But oh! at the JSA!
First of all, our tunnel singing was indoors—no potential snowfall for us; second of all, there were no Nazis. There was just Matt. And although Matt was the appointed leader of the Music and Theater Committee, tunnel singing was loosely run and we felt safe. We even took turns choosing hymns! When all had had an opportunity, we closed with prayer. Later on, there developed a post-prayer group-hug. I wasn’t as sure about that. (It’s an engaged guy thing)
The tunnel that led from the Sugar Bowl to the computer lab is tiled in red. Sort of a reptilian blood red.1 The floor slopes down from each end while the ceiling remains level, so they’re never the same distance apart. This building has the most curious architecture!
Walking through the tunnel was always an opportunity for me to exercise my lungs and vocal cords and play with notes and see what offered the most resonance. During tunnel singing also, occasionally a final note would linger as it chilled through the walls, four-part harmony blending into one ephemeral note echoing into what felt like eternity.
Music is the soul’s expression, the prayer of the righteous. That’s what hymns do, and why tunnel singing at the JSA felt so important.
Sunday evening in the reptilian tunnel was not the only time and place arranged for musical expression. Sister Dahl coordinated with Matt to arrange a choir that performed here and there throughout the semester. I, for reasons I cannot remember, did not join the choir. That is, not on purpose and not permanently. I remember I was somehow swept into singing at their first performance before one of the faculty spoke for the week’s Community lecture, but that was the last time. I was probably doing something of more eternal significance during choir practice, like cleaning the bathrooms.
Or perhaps I just had to choose between choir and Brother Midgely’s harmonica lessons. They were held in the NRI’s library (as opposed to the JSA’s library—two libraries, one building, very confusing. Sister Midgely, who ran the NRI’s library, was usually half-dead with boredom. So choir and her husband’s harmonica lessons were held there in an effort to help keep her on the earth.) By the end of the semester, I could rip off an exciting rendition of “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” and a somber “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but if there is but one thing I know about myself, it is my inability to stick with a musical instrument. I don’t want to talk about it.
Let’s go back to Matt, Sister Dahl and the choir. Here’s a nice fact: Sister Dahl told some people the fledgling Academy had no music; and immediately, anonymous donors filled the halls with music. Add to that Matt’s youthful enthusiasm, and the choir was deluged with possibility. (This sensation was made even worse by the vast stores of talent the choir members brought with them to practice. I can’t imagine how they dealt with so much potential. It just goes to show: massive ability does not necessarily lead to drunkenness and antisocial behavior. A good number of artists in every medium need to get this lesson driven into their brains with rubber mallets.)
Not being in the choir, I’m starting to feel left out; here’s some musical input from me:
If you sing in the choir then I’m sure that you know Matt
I’m sure if I would look for him that’s where he would be at
Surely his committee has the very best of jobs
Cuz they get up on the stage and make us laugh and scream and sob
Let’s call that a segue and move into the other responsibilities of the music and Theater Committee. Namely, theater.
Or then again, let’s not. It comes up elsewhere and after all, this isn’t a fascist regime and if we don’t wanna, we ain’t gotta. Besides, all this talk of beautiful music is making me teary eyed. (Or else it’s just from sitting in front of the computer screen too long. Sometimes it can be hard to tell.)
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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.