Andy Gave Us Peas
I wrote this 15 years ago and it was published in The Church Musician in 1997 by LifeWay. A framed copy hangs in my office, but I doubt many people have actually stood there long enough to read it.
I have served in various churches as the Minister of Music, both on a part-time and a full-time basis. I have worked with children's choirs, youth choirs, and adult choirs. I have led small ensembles and large ensembles. I have even worked with soloists. And with all of these groups I have developed a new liturgical litany: "Please over-pronounce your consonants so that we will be singing to God and not to gah." But after several months (and even years) of this litany, I still must drone on about the importance of correct pronunciation with every new piece of music that is rehearsed.
I will admit that I am the last person who could be considered an authority on the correct pronunciation of words in the English language. I have a verbal history of mispronunciations in virtually every language in printed music. I failed virtually every diction test I took in college, not because I was daydreaming and did not understand the rules associated with the I.P.A. system, but because I mispronounced the words in my head before I could ever spell them out on the paper in I.P.A. symbols.
I guess that my problems began with my birth. I have had a multi-cultural experience in life. You see, I was born in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to a Yankee mother, also from Pittsfield, and a Southern father, from the hills of South Carolina. I spent my formative, language constructing years in California, during the mid-60s. I spent most of my time around my mother, as is normal for a young, energetic two-year-old, but I was also acquainted with other children from around the country and the world. I then recalibrated my ears and vocal abilities for the South when we moved to Norfolk, Virginia. I learned how to speak Southern only as a young, city child could. After just enough years to complete my indoctrination into the Southern dialect, we moved to Maryland, around the Washington, D.C., area. I quickly learned that, although Maryland is often considered a Southern state, the natives had not been informed.
My first extreme, instrumental move came in the mid-70s when we moved to the Deep South--the Mississippi Gulf Coast--where I became acquainted with "real" Southerners as well as Cajuns. I quickly learned how to adapt to virtually any accentual confrontation. My friends taught me how to vocalize such refined sentences as: "I might could go acrost the street and fetch ya'll sompin to et;" or "I ain't gonna do it 'cuz I ain't gotta!" My Cajun Co-workers discipled me in the art of composing my sentences in a retrograde manner: "I shoost fow, maybe tree squirrel wit only two stone."
The linguistic colors only increased in their harmonic resonance when I moved to Fort Worth, Texas, to attend Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. I soon learned that Texans are not only proud and outspoken, but they are also truly exquisite rhetoricians. If requested, or if not, Texans are capable, as they will demonstrate, of rendering impeccable linguistic technique. To as unrefined an ear as mine, the sound is not unsimiliar to that of a full symphonic orchestra performing Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet with an improvised handsaw solo.
I know that we have church members who have become convinced that God's real name is Andy. After all, the congregation is already used to singing, "Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me, Andy tells me I am His own," so the choir only reinforced that during the Christmas Cantata when they sang, "They cried peas, peas, Andy gave us peas." I constantly asked my choir, "Who is Andy, and why would he give us peas?"
Watching the video following the performance I could not help but wonder why I wasted so much time trying to get them to pay attention to their diction when I could have spent more time on other musical aspects: such as counting, dynamics, phrase connections, and the list went on. But in amongst the throbbing pain that caused my head to jerk back and forth and my eyes to close tight enough to see pretty shapes and colors, I remember my Philosophy of Church Music class in which we debated the importance of text versus music. The debate ended with a chorus of agreement stating that the text should be considered the most important aspect of church music while the music should be viewed as the vehicle for transporting that message to others.
So, as I prepare for yet another Wednesday evening choir rehearsal, I have prepared my litany once more: "Please over-pronounce your consonants so that we will not be singing, 'I sin the mighty power of gah.'" May God bless us all as we strive to please Him with what talents He has given to us. Amen.
I have served in various churches as the Minister of Music, both on a part-time and a full-time basis. I have worked with children's choirs, youth choirs, and adult choirs. I have led small ensembles and large ensembles. I have even worked with soloists. And with all of these groups I have developed a new liturgical litany: "Please over-pronounce your consonants so that we will be singing to God and not to gah." But after several months (and even years) of this litany, I still must drone on about the importance of correct pronunciation with every new piece of music that is rehearsed.
I will admit that I am the last person who could be considered an authority on the correct pronunciation of words in the English language. I have a verbal history of mispronunciations in virtually every language in printed music. I failed virtually every diction test I took in college, not because I was daydreaming and did not understand the rules associated with the I.P.A. system, but because I mispronounced the words in my head before I could ever spell them out on the paper in I.P.A. symbols.
I guess that my problems began with my birth. I have had a multi-cultural experience in life. You see, I was born in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, to a Yankee mother, also from Pittsfield, and a Southern father, from the hills of South Carolina. I spent my formative, language constructing years in California, during the mid-60s. I spent most of my time around my mother, as is normal for a young, energetic two-year-old, but I was also acquainted with other children from around the country and the world. I then recalibrated my ears and vocal abilities for the South when we moved to Norfolk, Virginia. I learned how to speak Southern only as a young, city child could. After just enough years to complete my indoctrination into the Southern dialect, we moved to Maryland, around the Washington, D.C., area. I quickly learned that, although Maryland is often considered a Southern state, the natives had not been informed.
My first extreme, instrumental move came in the mid-70s when we moved to the Deep South--the Mississippi Gulf Coast--where I became acquainted with "real" Southerners as well as Cajuns. I quickly learned how to adapt to virtually any accentual confrontation. My friends taught me how to vocalize such refined sentences as: "I might could go acrost the street and fetch ya'll sompin to et;" or "I ain't gonna do it 'cuz I ain't gotta!" My Cajun Co-workers discipled me in the art of composing my sentences in a retrograde manner: "I shoost fow, maybe tree squirrel wit only two stone."
The linguistic colors only increased in their harmonic resonance when I moved to Fort Worth, Texas, to attend Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. I soon learned that Texans are not only proud and outspoken, but they are also truly exquisite rhetoricians. If requested, or if not, Texans are capable, as they will demonstrate, of rendering impeccable linguistic technique. To as unrefined an ear as mine, the sound is not unsimiliar to that of a full symphonic orchestra performing Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet with an improvised handsaw solo.
I know that we have church members who have become convinced that God's real name is Andy. After all, the congregation is already used to singing, "Andy walks with me, Andy talks with me, Andy tells me I am His own," so the choir only reinforced that during the Christmas Cantata when they sang, "They cried peas, peas, Andy gave us peas." I constantly asked my choir, "Who is Andy, and why would he give us peas?"
Watching the video following the performance I could not help but wonder why I wasted so much time trying to get them to pay attention to their diction when I could have spent more time on other musical aspects: such as counting, dynamics, phrase connections, and the list went on. But in amongst the throbbing pain that caused my head to jerk back and forth and my eyes to close tight enough to see pretty shapes and colors, I remember my Philosophy of Church Music class in which we debated the importance of text versus music. The debate ended with a chorus of agreement stating that the text should be considered the most important aspect of church music while the music should be viewed as the vehicle for transporting that message to others.
So, as I prepare for yet another Wednesday evening choir rehearsal, I have prepared my litany once more: "Please over-pronounce your consonants so that we will not be singing, 'I sin the mighty power of gah.'" May God bless us all as we strive to please Him with what talents He has given to us. Amen.
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