’Twas a dark and stormy night in that Alabama college town, where thunder roared and shook the walls of the music building so that even the practice rooms felt unsafe and exposed. She saw him walk down the hall from the somewhat iffy privacy of her practice room. She ducked under the door’s window to avoid being seen, and her heart felt like it would burst. She tried to breathe slowly, but she heard the next door down open, then close. And then the dreamy baritone began warming up with arpeggios that seemed slightly high for him, but—swoon—he was right next door, practicing next to her. As far as she knew, they were the only two souls in the building.
Plenty of football players had given her attention after she had sung the national anthem at their championship game. She was flattered, of course, but their ignorant queries such as, “Dang, girl, how you hit them high vocals?” and “Do you sing Grand Ole Opry?” left her uninterested in their pursuits. No, her heart yearned for the leading baritone of the last opera. She had been in the chorus, hardly noticeable, she assumed—but each afternoon in rehearsals, she was the most musically prepared, the best dressed (down to her unmentionables), and she always kept Altoids in her backpack.
She thought he had never noticed her, but as she led the chorus offstage, a careful observer would see him watch her go as he sang his love duets over the shoulder of the leading soprano. Backstage she would listen to him and notice that he was often a little sharp, somewhat overshooting his high notes; but that rich, middle voice resonance made her swoon with her dream of singing a leading role by his side. Together, her voice would temper his slightly tightened passaggio, and the reviews would be sure to gain notice by agents, the Met, La Scala . . . !
Suddenly, there was a knock on her door! What? Her wistful wanting had swept her away from the music she needed to practice. She stood up in the corner, so as not to look as though she was hiding and checked the window before opening the door.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she replied, as her stomach danced and her intercostal muscles involuntarily spasmed.
He leaned into the doorway and said, “I thought I saw your car in the lot and I was wondering if I could practice with you.”
Time stopped. She felt like she was floating, looking down on that perfect dusty brown hair . . . his backpack flung loosely at his side. Never in her wildest daydreams had she imagined being alone in a practice room with him. Practice was so important and so personal. Bringing herself back to reality, she coolly replied, “What? Do you want me to play the piano or something?” (What was that? Why did she offer to play piano? This exchange would never happen in the rom-coms she watched repeatedly on Netflix.)
He paused and smiled at her. Her heart skipped a beat. “Nah,” he replied, “I was hoping to sing for you and ask for your advice. You always sing so evenly up to your high notes. You make it sound easy. My teacher suggested I listen to the way you sing and, well, I think you are like, the best voice in the department.”
“What?” She spurted out, genuinely taken aback. “We’ve never spoken—you’ve never even noticed me!” She was backing up and he sensed something urgent in the way she said, “noticed,” as if it were singspiel, but not in the tonic key. He set his backpack down and gently put his hands up, “Umm, I didn’t mean to impose on your time, I just wanted to talk and practice together, if you were into it.” She sat on the piano bench and looked down. What. The. H. He was so close to her after all these months of imagining talking with him, dreaming of holding his hand . . . .
“OK,” she whispered. Gathering all her courage, she continued, “I’m just surprised. What did you say? Practice together?”
He sat down on the bench beside her and their thighs touched, just slightly. “Yeah. Together. You sing, I sing, we can tell each other what we hear.”
She jumped up, not ready for physical contact, although he seemed totally at ease sitting down next to her—so close and warm on this cold, stormy night. “Well, OK, I mean, it sounds kind of weird. I usually practice alone, unless I’m working with my accompanist. But we could work together, I guess. Are you learning the audition aria?”
He nodded and she continued, “Me, too. I know I’m only going to be in the chorus . . . .”
“Chorus?” he interrupted. “You’re going to get the lead!”
She laughed out loud. “The lead? The director never said one word to me!”
He held his hand to his heart and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but I overheard him talking to my teacher about your hard work, your preparation, and they both agreed you’ve got what it takes. That’s why the department asked you to sing the national anthem at the big game.”
She was speechless. Here, in her practice room was her biggest crush, totally boyfriendable and he was . . . he was here, right now. She took a slow, diaphragmatic breath and courageously answered, “OK, super fan, sing something. I’ll tell you what I hear.” Ooof, did she say “super fan?” Calm down; breathe low, in and out.
He jumped to grab his score and accidentally knocked her over. “Oh hell,” he muttered as he helped her up, his hands holding hers for a moment too long before she brushed him away as though nothing had happened.
“Sing,” she repeated and he threw random pages of music on the piano, searching for page one. She giggled, despite her best efforts at remaining aloof and then pushed him away and organized the pages. She grabbed a three-hole punch out of her backpack, punched the pages, and without looking at him asked for his binder.
Amused and a little embarrassed he admitted, “Uh, I, uh, don’t have it with me. Do you always carry a three-hole punch?”
“Don’t you?” She paused. “I’m kidding. No, I just brought it tonight to organize my music for the audition. Get your binder together if we’re going to be practice buddies. Now sing.” He slowly reached toward her, reluctantly took his music, and proceeded to sing the aria.
When he finished, she was sitting on the bench and he was standing in the crook of the piano. He looked at her interested gaze and broke the silence by brazenly asking, “Well? Did it make you feel a certain type a way?”
She stood up, pushed the bench back, and brushed her hair out of her eyes as she gathered courage from the goddess Maria Callas, whom she was often told she bore a resemblance. She put on her thickest southern drawl, “A certain type a way? Aren’t you skipping a few steps, sir?”
He lifted an eyebrow at her and then laughed, “I knew you were the one to ask for help. Tell me. What did I skip?”
She began to relax, feeling like she knew him intimately after listening to him sing in such close quarters. “Of course I feel it. You can’t sing a note without making me feel something. It’s just that when you go over that melisma, it gets sloppy, and then the high note kind of makes me wish it wasn’t so high. Why do you tighten up? You know you have the note.”
“Show me. I want to hear how you do it,” he suggested. Already standing, she sang back the same phrase, including the high note.
“No fair,” he came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re a soprano and that’s not even high for you.”
She took his hands and put them on the piano and sighed, “Lean on the piano. The note isn’t high for you either, you’re just thinking about singing it, not supporting it.” He tried once and choked. She put her hands on either side of his waist and whispered, “Inhale into my hands . . . engage and expand here . . . good . . . now sing it.” He sang it. Very well.
Our leading lady smiled and before she could say anything, her leading man was pushing her against the door and kissing her in that “certain type a way.” When they paused for breath, he whispered in her ear, “I guess I just needed to inhale into your hands.”
And, obviously, they did not live happily ever after, because they were 20 years old and stupid and driven by hormones. But they had a really good time for a while, and the practice buddy system led to some really good singing—on both their parts.
The End.
The Moral of the Satire
Practicing with a friend can be a helpful exercise in accountability, improvement, and trust. By setting up meeting times, students of singing will benefit from positive peer pressure to show up and do the work. Listening to fellow students is an excellent way to improve your ear and understand the process of healthy classical singing outside of your own physical experience. Trusting a friend to listen to you try new techniques will improve your confidence in all types of performances. And, if you dream of a practice romance of your own, well . . . the end of your story is up to you.
