Grandma
was an alto. I learned this when I
joined the choir as a ten year old, before my voice changed. Mom placed me on the second row, between grandma
and grandpap. The joke was that this was
for the sake of public order. It took
advantage of the fact that grandpap could only hear well in his right ear. It kept me at a bit of a distance from those
other tenors and basses who always had a joke to tell at the wrong moment. But really, I think, it was so I would learn
from grandma what it meant to be part of a choir.
Altos
don’t get to sing the melody, like the sopranos, and they aren’t generally
given dramatic leaps or catchy rhythms like basses. They hold the middle voice and keep the beat. Sometimes they will sing pretty much the same
note for whole lines of music. The other
voices rise and fall, but altos are steadfast, anchoring the other members of
the choir and drawing them together into a sound that is all the richer and
more vibrant for their humble contribution.
There
isn’t any choral singing without altos—just lots of performers vying for
attention, delighted in the sound of their own voices. The blend is the truly beautiful thing about
choral singing. It relies on listening
to each other, and requires that some must take the humbler place, offering
their best as a form of service to the whole, giving what they have in love
that does not seek for recognition or honor.
