The Edge

Yesterday I sang a gig in a new church with a new conductor.  The repertoire was standard even though I hadn't seen any of it before.  Singing in a new place is always exciting and daunting, but this gig was unexpectedly fraught and the reason for that was entirely of my own making.   I made an error early in the runthrough, which was twenty minutes long.  There were four singers on the gig and one was not present for this precious twenty minute rehearsal.  Immediately the critic inside my head went to mars with the commentary.  I desperately wanted to be perfect on this call, because, you know how it is, if you are good and consistent the first time, the chances of being called back are good.  The mental struggle after I began to second guess myself was punishing.  The chatter from my critic didn't stop.  I began to sweat and then to smell (joy).  I made further errors and then was unsure about almost every note I sang.  Then my old pal the psychosomatic phlegm ball showed up and moved into my throat.

In some of the most "high stress" situations I'm totally fine and in other completely innocuous environments, I'm a wreck.  I never know when the critic is in the neighbourhood or whether or not she's accompanied by her friend the phlegm ball, but the moment they show up the noise inside my own head makes it hard for me to aim my artistic self outward.  "It's only a church service," I told myself about a million times.  I faced the edge of my self, and I'd like to say I won, but the jury is out on that one.  I tried to observe all the things my critic was saying and breathe deeply and depend on the 25+ years of choral experience, but singing while standing on a cliff is tough going.

The battle continues.