Pitch Perfect: Haunting Melodies

Pitch Perfect written 

by Janet Wilcox  September 1999

Revised July 2016

                                         Mr. Hanson and our 8th grade class

Where is Grandma Janet?

Barbara walked calmly to the piano and then with perfect pitch, hit each note that our choir teacher, Mr. Hansen played on the piano. 

"That's very good.  You'll be a real asset in the alto section."  She sauntered back to her seat, and the next student warily approached the piano.  One by one our music teacher tested each of us to see which part we could best sing.

" I wish I'd never come to school today," I thought. My insides did a quick gyro flex, then slowly twisted into a figure eight­, pushing my diaphragm up in to my throat. I clenched my clammy hands tightly and thought, "I know my voice won't even come close to the pitch. I can't even hear it. I'll probably squeak."

This was the day my mother had warned would eventually catch up with me.  "Some day you'll be sorry you didn't develop your voice."  For years Mom had practiced and gone to voice lessons herself and developed a beautiful soprano voice, but I ignored her urgings to learn how to sing.  Instead of corralling my wayward talent, I had let my voice wander off into an uncharted wilderness of monotone bliss.  Never had I tried singing a part or joined a chorus.  However, I could read music, and play a respectable hymn on either the clarinet or piano.  That was my concession to music.

Now here I was, herded in with the rest of the 8th grade sheep and expected to sing on tune.  Everyone would know instantly when my voice spun off into ear‑jarring disharmony. There would be no privacy for this public tune up. How embarrassing!  I knew I could never get my voice to match the tone of the note played. My brothers had teased me enough, so I knew I did a definite disservice to any song I attempted to sing. I didn't know if any sound could even squeeze past the contorted knot I felt in the pit of my stomach.

Tamra, then Linda each took their turns.  Their voices soared to the high notes like dazzling butterflies topping a swaying daisy. I tried to imagine my shaky voice inching up the scale.  Yes, there it was, crawling toward the note like a rheumatoid centipede.   Then I heard Mr. Hansen call my name.

 He hit the F above middle C.  Some strange tone bounced from my mouth, landed somewhere in the cracks between the black keys.  It then somersaulted back down, sprawling some­where between D and A flat.  From the scowl on Mr. Hansen's face I could tell there was no relationship between it and the note he had played. I must have been at least two full steps off, which way I wasn't sure. 

"Try this one," he grimaced, as he hit another key.  Again I tried to match the note.  I couldn't tell if my ears couldn't hear the pitch because of the pounding of my heart, or if it just wasn't sending the message to my voice; whichever it was, they definitely were not synchronized.  My voice quavered between two discordant pitches, then careened into the crevices between the keys.  I knew I was off pitch, but I was unable to make the necessary correction.  I heard a few muffled snickers from the chorus seats behind me. In desperation he tried one more note.  Surely, anyone could hit Middle C.  I was sure I came close, but at the last moment my voice veered off to the left landing in the bass clef. 

       Mr. Hansen removed his glasses, and rubbed his brow, while rolling his eyes heavenward. I could tell by his perplexed expression; he was at a loss about where to put me. In a somewhat desperate query, he asked, "You don't happen to play the piano, do you?"  I'm not sure who was more relieved, Mr. Hansen or myself--when I replied, "Yes." 

"That's great," he said.  "You'll be our accompanist."

For years afterward that was my role-‑ in both church and school.  I was the accompa­nist.  Even in college, I willingly volunteered for that ­safe, nonthreatening position, and never gave my ­voice a chance to sing a part.  The piano was my musical shield for 35 years.  Then one day, in a desperate move, to encourage my teenagers to join the church choir, I found myself promising that I would go, if they would.  It seemed an easy trade off for them, but to my neophyte voice box, it was a precarious position.  I remem­ber well the first time I showed up at choir practice. I carefully positioned myself between two friends whose strong alto voices I knew would drown me out.  While I first learned to hear the notes, then to sing them, they would be my crutch.  I could follow them-- their voices were strong and true.  They helped erect musical fences to hedge in my wandering voice when I couldn't hear the tune.  They sang louder, asking the pianist to pound out the alto part, politely letting me waffle up and down the notes as I retrained my ears and my voice to hear only my part.  Like a newborn colt, I staggered from side to side, wobbling to and fro, only occasional­ly hitting the notes. For months, I followed them, learning to listen, and trying to make my untrained voice match their tones.  Though I knew the notes and could play them on the piano, my inexperienced ears allowed my voice to meander into the nethermost parts of the keys. 

           It was over a year before I began to notice I could occasionally hear the part and sing it even when I wasn't next to the strongest voices.  I was starting to hear the part, and match my voice to it.  I began to feel a part of the harmony, not part of the discord. 

In other parts of our lives disharmony often arises, and we need a tune up, to pull our lives back into balance.  Like our voices, our spirit also must be trained to listen, to hear, and then respond to spiritual promptings.  We have to train ourselves­ to recognize God's subtle proddings and­ to be in tune with the still small voice.  The Holy Ghost is there to guide and inspire us.  His promptings are accurate and true, but often we fail to hear God's quiet melody because of the worldly discord around us, or the disharmony in our own lives.  Sometimes we seek the reckless rhythms of the world and refuse to listen to the spirit. Thus, we never hear the better part God has for us.  However, when we choose to follow God's way, we may need to rely on good friends, to keep us on the right path and to keep us in harmony.  They may have to sing loudly in our ears at time, to keep us on pitch. But finally the real test will come.  Eventually our spirits will need to stand as soloists in God's choir, in tune and able to sing.