Touring with the
American Choral Directors Association
By Dr. Robert E. Plucker
A
1976 invitation to join a People to People tour of Eastern Europe organized by
the American Choral Directors Association was a big surprise to me. First,
because as a choral director at a small community college, I could not pretend
to be a key figure in American choral singing. Second, because I had not paid
my dues in some time, and was sure I had been dropped from the membership
roles. I was pleased, of course, to have received the invitation even though
the trip to Eastern Europe would be at my own expense. As it turned out, Skagit
Valley College picked up part of the tab.
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| Krystof Penderecki |
The
notion of touring with some of the fine choral directors in the nation made me
think that this just might be an opportunity to realize a dream. To do some
great singing with people who could sing at sight and who would have well-nigh
perfect ears. I prepared for this by packing along all the extra weight of sign
copies of a book of madrigals.
The
itinerary for the tour was this: to Stockholm, Warsaw, Krakow, Prague,
Belgrade, Dubrovnik, and finally, London. We were to visit school music
classes, attend rehearsals and concerts of leading choral groups, and meet some
of the fine conductors and composers of those countries. The most well-known of
these was the great Polish composer Krystof Penderecki. They were all extremely
friendly and hospitable to us; we had a great buffet lunch at the home of
Penderecki and his wife, all twenty-two of us.
But
the Polish travel was fun for another reason. We flew in Russian-made planes
from Warsaw to Karkow, back to Warsaw, then on to Prague, Belgrade and
Dubrovnik. At that time they did not have the enclosed, motorized boarding
ramps that we have grown accustomed to. Instead, we were taken to the end of
the runway on a small bus, and then were to wait there until the plane came so
we could board by ladders. The flights seemed to be scheduled mostly in the
early morning, and caused some grumbling during these longish waits.
But
I saw this as an opportunity. My colleagues were startled when I called for
madrigal singers, the set of madrigal books in my hand. Not many wanted to take
part in this venture, but with the help of a lady from Salem, Oregon, perhaps
six or seven people were persuaded to become madrigalistes. And thus was born
the Early Morning Polish Airport Madrigal Society: EMPAMS.
This
reticence to sing (making a public spectacle of themselves) was again
demonstrated at the end of the trip when we were in London. We were to sit in
on a rehearsal of one of London’s really fine choirs. We sat near the back of
the hall while the choir was up in front. They were impressive, in part because
they were singing some material they had recently performed in concert. I was
quite taken with the effect of the alto section, half male and half female, but
was a bit disappointed in the rather delicate, polite, careful overall sound of
the choir as compared to the robust Slavic choirs we had heard recently.
At
the end of the two and one half hour session (broken for a brew or two at the
pub across the street), the conductor asked if we would like to join his choir
and sing a Bach motet, one that every good choir director should know, “Singt
dem Herrn.”
I expected that all twenty-two of us would leap up and clamor for a
place to sit. How many actually made their way to the front? Two, and I was one
of them. I had been watching the tenor section and had picked out a guy on the
end who struck me as being the weakest, and could use the help of an (a-hem)
experienced singer like me. Hah! He was fine,
he had all the notes, sang them dead center on pitch with perfect rhythm and a
truly good voice. He was a nice man, and had no conceited airs about him.
Back
to traveling in Russian-made planes on Polish airlines, we found these
prop-driven turbo-jet planes quite drab, noisy, and threadbare in the
upholstery. The planes had narrow seats with minimal fore-and-aft space. One of
our group, a frankly fat lady a couple of axe-handles wide, could not totally
wedge herself into the seat. Getting out must have required super-human
strength. I could not watch. One of these trips was livened up a bit by four or
five Russian men who said in a heavy accent, that they had just received a
contract to supply inflatable rafts to some Scandinavian country. They were
celebrating pretty hard with a couple of open bottles being passed around. I
was sitting right next to one of these noisy fellows who insisted that I needed
a turn on the bottle as well. What could I do? Refuse? No! I upheld the honor
of the United States and the American Choral Directors by a swig from the
bottle every time it was passed around. Good thing it was a short trip.
Another
episode from the ACDA tour took place during the time we were to fly from
Dubrovnik back to Belgrade and then on to London. The wife of one of the choral
directors must have had a lot of money of her own. When we first hit Belgrade
she shopped and shopped for jewelry and other luxury stuff. Nothing new in that
because she always shopped. She and her husband had to ship home several boxes
of stuff from places we had visited. The worst was a strange multi-colored
framework that rather resembled a lacrosse racquet confused with a bird-cage.
It had to be more than six feet long, easy enough to carry, but taking up way
too much space. She insisted that this be carried into the passenger
compartment of this crowded plane, much to the discomfort and disgust of all.
This same awkward object again appeared on the plane from London to New York,
but fortunately nowhere near me. You wonder what her house must look like, with
all these bargain “treasures.”
Some
comments on communist conditions: This incident did not happen to me, but to
three others of our party. They had gone sight-seeing in Krakow one afternoon,
and having walked a goodly distance, plus being unsure of how to get back to
the hotel, they decided to take a taxi. They found one, the driver wanted to
know where they wanted to go; they gave him the hotel name. His broken English
response, “I don’t want to go there.” My friends eventually got back, afoot.
I
went into a Warsaw store expecting to buy a souvenir of Poland. I thought a
necktie would be nice, so I asked the clerk to show me some ties. This was not
a store where you wander about, selecting items from the floor and paying at a
check-out stand. The clerk strolled back into the store, returning the one
necktie. The implication was that this was the only tie he would show me. That
tie or nothing.
In
Prague, we had just come out of a meeting in a downtown building, and one of
our guys asked our omnipresent tour guide (In Communist countries you always
were supposed to have a guide) why there was old, falling-apart scaffolding on
an adjoining building. The guide said he didn’t know, but it had been there for
years. No one had ever given the order to take it down, so it had to remain, I
suppose, until it fell down.
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| Warsaw, Poland Stalin's Tower |
There
was some background music playing, a kind of “elevator music” I thought, until
I recognized the tune, “Georgia on My Mind.” One of our American songs playing
in Stalin’s tower? Could this be a sly joke on the Communists, some Polish wise
guy playing with the fact that Josef Stalin was born in Soviet Georgia?
Thanks to "Google Search" for these pictures of Poland.
Thanks to "Microsoft Word" for Clipart
Krystof Penderecki is still alive and you can find out more about
him on his web page:
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