the kata of Dillon Beach
Herbert Howells 17 October 1892 – 23 February 1983
Just a heads up, most 14-voice church choirs do not sing the work of Herbert Howells. They are huge, dense pieces of essential 20th-century choral music, debuted by Gloucester, Winchester and Christ Church, Oxford. Now, let me tell you what we did this weekend.
Last summer it was Placerville. This year it was the dreamy, foggy shore of Drake’s Bay. St. Paul’s Choir went to Dillon Beach, West Marin County for our choir retreat. This retreat is a weekend away where all we can to is eat, drink, talk and sing and sing. It is our version of an all-day sing with supper on the ground. Our first rehearsal call was for 4:30 pm on Saturday the first of September. From Oakland it takes about an hour and a half to get there and it’s worth the drive. And it is a drive through the cattle on a thousand hills of West Marin. At this time of year, these rolling coastal hills are soft gold dotted with cattle and black green live oaks. You get to my old love, Petaluma, and take a left. It is
We were late. We are always late and P was very grumpy. But with a splendid reading of the Missa Solemnis on the car cd and a lovely ride, we got to the base of operations. There were three houses, described by Vicki as Papa (the base) Mama (our digs) and Baby (where V & R and were). The rehearsals were held in the kitchen of the Papa Bear house. I was responsible for supper that evening so was working behind the kitchen island as the rest of them sang. Ok, how do I describe this. It was a kitchen with what could be an eating area on the far side of the island. (If it was a very small table and only two chairs.) Into this space was forced an electric piano and enough seating for ten, most of the sopranos standing, and we rehearsed. So I was behind the the island making quiche. The leeks were prepped, all of the cheeses were shredded and the dough was made. Oh I was so organized. Except I didn’t bring flour to roll out the pie dough. Why did I think that a perishable comestible would be available at a beach rental property? But then, through my panic came John’s voice of reason: “Just crush up some crackers and use that.” What you need to know is that John is a musicologist, sings baritone with us and is blind. His service dog Joelle is the smartest, mellowest, sweetest pup in the whole world. John’s wisdom saved me and made for rather tasty, crunchy couple of quiches.
(It might be useful to know the make up of this choir in this tiny space. We are talking about ten Episcopalians, two Congregationalists, two Reform Jews who helped us and brought the perfect baby, one cradle Catholic and a still in recovering lapsed Baptist. Now, may I address the above mentioned perfect baby. His name is Zephyr, he is 6 months old, he has almost no hair and is the very best party boy in the world. He can sleep through any amount of singing.)
We rehearsed on Saturday and sang Sunday morning service for the sweet folks at St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Sebastopol. As we do so often, the rehearsal was for shit for the morning service. Why is Christopher so forgiving ? But we pulled it together, it being the Byrd Five-Voice mass, the first movement of the Howells Requiem that we are slaving over for All Souls Day and our old favorite, “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” by Poston (I do love it so). We sang for our new friends, had an interesting theological question (look up the word “filioque” if you want a really good time) and shared coffee with this very welcoming congregation. But we had important business at the Gravenstein Grill, which was the only local that could accommodate a party of rowdy Episcopalians. They put us in their side patio, well enough away from normal, proper Sunday brunchers that our noise would not impinge on the other diners.
We were very comfortable, with a wonderful flamenco guitarist and a great lead waitress. It was she who suggested the house gazpacho Bloody Marys and these were simply the best of that drink I have ever had. Oh my dears, you gotta go to this place, especially in tomato season. We ate, talked, drank and ogled the perfect baby. Have you ever watched 20 adults try to pay on only five checks? Joshua became our banker and with Paypal, cash and other apps we were able to make it work. (Note to restauranteurs: separate checks are simply not that hard. In this particular case, Joshua wanted the milage points, but still, it ain’t that hard.)
We went back to the various digs, changed out of our Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and wandered back to the smallest choral rehearsal space in the universe. Really my loves, there are walk in closets that have more space than where we crammed 14 singers, an electric piano, a totally mad choir director and don’t forget the baby. I was sitting next to John, he of the perfect service Joelle and elegant baritone, with Joshua (my section leader and co-first tenor) behind us. It must be understood that I do not sing solfeggio. If you tell me the key a piece is in, it simply does not matter to me. What I have is tone matching directly from God, through Robert Parker Jenkins, and trained by six years of playing the violin. Director Christopher now thinks I can read music. No boss, you can read, Philip can read as can many in this miraculous choir. I listen to Joshua and make the same tone. So if he makes it incorrectly, we both go down the rabbit hole. I just copy the tone and the spaces between the notes fill in the rest.
But back to Joelle, who was sitting patiently between John and me. After about 45 minutes of singing Herbert Howells, she set her beautiful head on my knee. I gave her ear scritches and a few pets then her father explained. “She does that when she’s bored. What she is saying is ‘Aunt Elizabeth, please take me outside where I can find some interesting thing. Please Auntie, be nice to your Joelle, I am so bored.’” This went on till we broke for dinner. Sausages were grilled, salads were made and the normal St. Paul’s Choir party ensued.
Monday morning we were all breaking up, breakfasting and I was wild to get on the road home. I do not know why but, when the road points home, I need to be on it. I will say travel well to everyone else and run to the car. Vicki and Richard wanted to see our digs so we met them on our way out and gave our dear friends sketchy instructions into the house so they could look around. I hope they saw what they wanted but I so needed to be on the road. Once all were hugged and loved and bidden farewell, the little Blue Opera House took its road to Oakland. And that’s where the voice on the phone comes in.
Two years ago Philip and I traversed Portland under the direction of a map app. She, unlike Siri or Alexa, does not have a name, so I will call her Hecate, the one who stands where two roads cross. She tells us how to get where we want to go. Now I will agree, there is no direct road from Dillon Beach to the 101. It is possible that Hecate has noticed the way we like to travel. When going Up The Hill, we like either the 20 or the 4, informing our travel advisor that we like backroads. Thus she sent us over the hills and far away from Dillon Beach to the 101. Rather than sending us back up to Sebastopol and to the 101 directly, we went out the Dillon Beach Road and thence to Tomales Road. The roads got narrow, sometimes just two lanes, through the beautiful dairy lands of Western Sonoma. There are all of the cows who make our cream, milk and cheese. Finally Hecate brought us to the southernmost exit for Petaluma and onto the dreaded 101. The goddess of the crossroads does not like the 101 and avoids it until the very last minute. So we drove through the golden hills behind Petaluma before we joined the great highway.
When Christopher first suggested a choir retreat I did not understand why. Retreats have always had a corporate team-building vibe and I don’t like corporate. Now, after the second St. Paul’s Choir retreat, I understand. It was a kitchen, it was really cramped and we sang a whole lot of Herbert Howells into each other’s ears. The retreats separate us from our regular lives and focus our hearts on music. That we have such a good time with each other is pure gravy. Ok Christopher, you were right. We needed a weekend at the beach.
Herbert Howells 17 October 1892 – 23 February 1983
Just a heads up, most 14-voice church choirs do not sing the work of Herbert Howells. They are huge, dense pieces of essential 20th-century choral music, debuted by Gloucester, Winchester and Christ Church, Oxford. Now, let me tell you what we did this weekend.
Last summer it was Placerville. This year it was the dreamy, foggy shore of Drake’s Bay. St. Paul’s Choir went to Dillon Beach, West Marin County for our choir retreat. This retreat is a weekend away where all we can to is eat, drink, talk and sing and sing. It is our version of an all-day sing with supper on the ground. Our first rehearsal call was for 4:30 pm on Saturday the first of September. From Oakland it takes about an hour and a half to get there and it’s worth the drive. And it is a drive through the cattle on a thousand hills of West Marin. At this time of year, these rolling coastal hills are soft gold dotted with cattle and black green live oaks. You get to my old love, Petaluma, and take a left. It is
We were late. We are always late and P was very grumpy. But with a splendid reading of the Missa Solemnis on the car cd and a lovely ride, we got to the base of operations. There were three houses, described by Vicki as Papa (the base) Mama (our digs) and Baby (where V & R and were). The rehearsals were held in the kitchen of the Papa Bear house. I was responsible for supper that evening so was working behind the kitchen island as the rest of them sang. Ok, how do I describe this. It was a kitchen with what could be an eating area on the far side of the island. (If it was a very small table and only two chairs.) Into this space was forced an electric piano and enough seating for ten, most of the sopranos standing, and we rehearsed. So I was behind the the island making quiche. The leeks were prepped, all of the cheeses were shredded and the dough was made. Oh I was so organized. Except I didn’t bring flour to roll out the pie dough. Why did I think that a perishable comestible would be available at a beach rental property? But then, through my panic came John’s voice of reason: “Just crush up some crackers and use that.” What you need to know is that John is a musicologist, sings baritone with us and is blind. His service dog Joelle is the smartest, mellowest, sweetest pup in the whole world. John’s wisdom saved me and made for rather tasty, crunchy couple of quiches.
(It might be useful to know the make up of this choir in this tiny space. We are talking about ten Episcopalians, two Congregationalists, two Reform Jews who helped us and brought the perfect baby, one cradle Catholic and a still in recovering lapsed Baptist. Now, may I address the above mentioned perfect baby. His name is Zephyr, he is 6 months old, he has almost no hair and is the very best party boy in the world. He can sleep through any amount of singing.)
We rehearsed on Saturday and sang Sunday morning service for the sweet folks at St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Sebastopol. As we do so often, the rehearsal was for shit for the morning service. Why is Christopher so forgiving ? But we pulled it together, it being the Byrd Five-Voice mass, the first movement of the Howells Requiem that we are slaving over for All Souls Day and our old favorite, “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” by Poston (I do love it so). We sang for our new friends, had an interesting theological question (look up the word “filioque” if you want a really good time) and shared coffee with this very welcoming congregation. But we had important business at the Gravenstein Grill, which was the only local that could accommodate a party of rowdy Episcopalians. They put us in their side patio, well enough away from normal, proper Sunday brunchers that our noise would not impinge on the other diners.
We were very comfortable, with a wonderful flamenco guitarist and a great lead waitress. It was she who suggested the house gazpacho Bloody Marys and these were simply the best of that drink I have ever had. Oh my dears, you gotta go to this place, especially in tomato season. We ate, talked, drank and ogled the perfect baby. Have you ever watched 20 adults try to pay on only five checks? Joshua became our banker and with Paypal, cash and other apps we were able to make it work. (Note to restauranteurs: separate checks are simply not that hard. In this particular case, Joshua wanted the milage points, but still, it ain’t that hard.)
We went back to the various digs, changed out of our Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and wandered back to the smallest choral rehearsal space in the universe. Really my loves, there are walk in closets that have more space than where we crammed 14 singers, an electric piano, a totally mad choir director and don’t forget the baby. I was sitting next to John, he of the perfect service Joelle and elegant baritone, with Joshua (my section leader and co-first tenor) behind us. It must be understood that I do not sing solfeggio. If you tell me the key a piece is in, it simply does not matter to me. What I have is tone matching directly from God, through Robert Parker Jenkins, and trained by six years of playing the violin. Director Christopher now thinks I can read music. No boss, you can read, Philip can read as can many in this miraculous choir. I listen to Joshua and make the same tone. So if he makes it incorrectly, we both go down the rabbit hole. I just copy the tone and the spaces between the notes fill in the rest.
But back to Joelle, who was sitting patiently between John and me. After about 45 minutes of singing Herbert Howells, she set her beautiful head on my knee. I gave her ear scritches and a few pets then her father explained. “She does that when she’s bored. What she is saying is ‘Aunt Elizabeth, please take me outside where I can find some interesting thing. Please Auntie, be nice to your Joelle, I am so bored.’” This went on till we broke for dinner. Sausages were grilled, salads were made and the normal St. Paul’s Choir party ensued.
Monday morning we were all breaking up, breakfasting and I was wild to get on the road home. I do not know why but, when the road points home, I need to be on it. I will say travel well to everyone else and run to the car. Vicki and Richard wanted to see our digs so we met them on our way out and gave our dear friends sketchy instructions into the house so they could look around. I hope they saw what they wanted but I so needed to be on the road. Once all were hugged and loved and bidden farewell, the little Blue Opera House took its road to Oakland. And that’s where the voice on the phone comes in.
Two years ago Philip and I traversed Portland under the direction of a map app. She, unlike Siri or Alexa, does not have a name, so I will call her Hecate, the one who stands where two roads cross. She tells us how to get where we want to go. Now I will agree, there is no direct road from Dillon Beach to the 101. It is possible that Hecate has noticed the way we like to travel. When going Up The Hill, we like either the 20 or the 4, informing our travel advisor that we like backroads. Thus she sent us over the hills and far away from Dillon Beach to the 101. Rather than sending us back up to Sebastopol and to the 101 directly, we went out the Dillon Beach Road and thence to Tomales Road. The roads got narrow, sometimes just two lanes, through the beautiful dairy lands of Western Sonoma. There are all of the cows who make our cream, milk and cheese. Finally Hecate brought us to the southernmost exit for Petaluma and onto the dreaded 101. The goddess of the crossroads does not like the 101 and avoids it until the very last minute. So we drove through the golden hills behind Petaluma before we joined the great highway.
When Christopher first suggested a choir retreat I did not understand why. Retreats have always had a corporate team-building vibe and I don’t like corporate. Now, after the second St. Paul’s Choir retreat, I understand. It was a kitchen, it was really cramped and we sang a whole lot of Herbert Howells into each other’s ears. The retreats separate us from our regular lives and focus our hearts on music. That we have such a good time with each other is pure gravy. Ok Christopher, you were right. We needed a weekend at the beach.
