Life Is Not a Dress Rehearsal! (But Sometimes on the UWS You Have to Audition)

By Margie Smith Holt

It was a dark and – though not stormy – bitterly cold January evening.

I slogged across a slushy 86th Street toward Broadway, head bowed to watch for icy patches and protect my face from the wind whipping up from the Hudson, and counted the good reasons to retreat to my cozy UWS apartment, the weather only one. My heart was beating fast, out of time. I was tightly-strung, sweating as much as one could be when it is 22 degrees, and consumed with dread.

I was on my way to a church on West 87th for an audition. No big deal, perhaps, for the countless professional performers on the Upper West Side. But this Upper West Sider hadn’t auditioned for anything in 40 years. 

Singing had been my teenage joy. From the moment I stepped onstage for the high school production of “The Music Man,” I was hooked. The chorus was where I found my friends.

Freshman year at NYU I sang with the university choir at the tree lighting at Rockefeller Center—right behind the Rockettes!—but sometime after that the magic fizzled. Other interests beckoned. Then came work—too unpredictable to commit to rehearsals. I missed choral singing—longing bubbling up with each holiday performance of Handel’s Messiah or Carmina Burana blasting from a Gatorade ad—but never did anything about it.

Twenty-five years went by.

Inspiration struck one Christmas, partly from another soaring “Hallelujah” chorus at Lincoln Center, but mostly from a visit with my new husband’s family in the Midwest. They were accomplished amateur musicians, playing with community orchestras, even scheduling vacations around adult “band camp.” Newly motivated, I researched choirs here at home but quickly discovered, to my dismay, I couldn’t just sign up. I would have to audition.

Right. This wasn’t some small town, all-are-welcome operation. This was NYC! Epicenter of arts excellence, where even the amateurs are pros. Who was I to compete? I hadn’t cracked a score since 1984. I chickened out.

Another 15 years went by.

Maybe it was the math. Forty years is a long time. Maybe it was because it felt like the planet was burning and I was desperate for community. But this year I made a resolution: Find a chorus. No overthinking. I opened Google maps, plugged in “choir UWS,” and up popped the Central City Chorus on West End Avenue. Yes, auditions were required, but the director’s note was friendly. He promised—actually used those words: “I promise”—a “fun and positive experience.” I emailed him before I had a chance to change my mind. 

For the next week, I practiced like it was my job, spending hours vocalizing in my bathroom. (Best acoustics in the apartment!) The cellist next door must have thought I was auditioning 20 blocks south for a roster opening at the Met. Cheered on by those high school choristers, still among my best friends, I steeled myself for the big test, rationalizing that if I didn’t make it, it was OK. Just showing up would be a win.

The director, young and enthusiastic, greeted me warmly. He smiled encouragingly as I sang my audition piece. I think he played some musical intervals that I had to repeat, and when I missed a note, he let me try again. And that was it. Twenty minutes later, I was warming up with 60 other singers, the newest soprano 2 in the Central City Chorus.

Every Thursday night for the rest of the winter, I was in the basement of St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, singing with what one chorus member called “the best group of people you’d ever want to meet.” The alto who retired from a career at Juilliard. The tenor who came to the UWS to study at Columbia and never left. Young singers who meet for quick meals on Amsterdam before rehearsals, and stalwarts who gather after for martinis at the Hi-Life. All coming together to engage in something that seeks to unite, to put some beauty back into the world. 

Our first concert, in March, we assembled upstairs, in the sanctuary. We sang music that praised God, and some that exalted nature. We sang songs of resistance and celebration. Light poured through the stained-glass windows and in multiple languages, in eight-part harmony, we sang of spring.

Life is not a dress rehearsal! That was a rallying cry for another midlife adventure, one that sent me sailing across the ocean in a little boat, arguably more daunting than singing with a group of nice people in my neighborhood. So why was I so scared of this? We really can be our own worst enemies.

I don’t know why I let fear or doubt or inertia keep me from doing something I love for so long, but I’m back at it. Raising my voice. Making friends. Finding the magic again.

Rehearsals start this month for the new season. If you’re interested, auditions are held on a rolling basis. It will be a positive experience. I promise.

For more information, visit centralcitychorus.org. Tenors and basses especially are encouraged to audition!