Count every Hallelujah.

There was an old adage among 1950’s-era comic book horror writers. Stories that would normally populate in magazines like Tales from the Crypt would follow the mantra of, “You sharpen the pencils, the pencils sharpen you.” It’s a formula that if you do something bad at the start of the story, something associated with that transgression will befall you.

And with that, I have a story. We’re going back to the fall of 1983, at which time I was a Hamilton College junior.

One of my classes that year was called “Oratorio,” which was a choir of students and townspeople. We practiced a performance of some major classical warhorse, and then either performed it at the College Chapel to a (hopefully) receptive audience, or we performed the concert somewhere in the Mohawk Valley – either in Clinton or Utica or New Hartford.

You didn’t have to be a fantastic singer to participate in the Oratorio class. Heck, you received an “A” simply by showing up each week to rehearse and perform in the final concert. And when you’re already carrying a full college courseload, Oratorio is a nice “gut” course to help keep your GPA up. Or in my case, it was a nice “gut” course that would at least count toward my graduation schedule.

Oratorio was hosted by the college choirmaster, G. Roberts Kolb. Professor Kolb was a very supportive professor and educator, and his words contained a ton of essence. And by “essence,” he would explain something so directly and simply, that it made absolute sense. For example, to capture the heart of the performance in Oratorio that year – which was Handel’s Messiah – he explained that the essence is like finding the inner flavor of a sandwich. Get past the bread, get past the condiments, get past the lettuce and the meat – and whatever’s left – that flavor and taste – that’s the essence that must be brought to a performance.

Excuse me, I have to put my mind back together, it just got blown.

I should also note that while I looked forward to those Oratorio practices, I do know there were some students who did not look forward to them. Actually, let me redefine that. They did not look forward to ME being at Oratorio. Because for some students on campus, I was not a welcome sight. And for that, there were many reasons they gave. I already knew that I was a bit of a knucklehead on campus, and I get that. I also knew I wasn’t a scion of familial wealth or breeding.

And to that point, I shall introduce you to – for all intents and purposes – a girl we shall call Simone. The minute Simone saw me in the first Oratorio rehearsal, I could tell she was not thrilled. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “HE’s here. Chuck Miller. Ugh.”

Yeah, trust me. Simone wouldn’t have given me the time of day if she owned a hundred Rolexes.

It didn’t matter. We were all there to rehearse and perform Handel’s Messiah. And if you’re familiar with the Messiah, you must of course know its most famous portion – the Hallelujah Chorus.

If not … this YouTube clip may help.

Now, Professor Kolb stressed each week – as we rehearsed the piece over and over – to pay attention to him at the podium. Because there’s a portion of the Hallelujah Chorus where the voices completely drop out – leaving nothing but evocative silence. “Make sure you pay attention to my hands and my direction,” he implored. “And if you lose count of how many Hallelujahs to sing before I cut you off, simply mime the words near the end if you’ve lost count – and just look blessed.”

Meanwhile, I was still receiving nasty glares from Simone. “I don’t know why anyone let Chuck Miller in this class,” I heard her say to a couple of her friends. “He’s got a terrible voice, he’ll probably throw everybody off when the concert finally happens, ugh.”

Wow. Way to make me REALLY feel wanted here.

Okay. Night of the show. We travel to Utica to perform the Messiah at a church in Utica. I’m on the bus, reading over the libretto one more time, making sure I remember everything from all the rehearsals. As we get off the bus, I hear Simone make another derogatory comment about me. “This would have been so much more fun if Chuck Miller wasn’t part of it.”

Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths.

Our choir assembles. Professor Kolb guides us through the Messiah. Everything goes well.

Then it’s time for the Hallelujah Chorus.

We belt out the Hallelujahs. One by one. Strong and loud and powerful.

For the lord God omni-potent reign-eth – Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Man, I still remember those lyrics, 40 years later.

And it gets louder. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! HALLELUJAH!!!

We’re coming to the silent break – I can’t remember if it’s five hallelujahs away or four hallelujahs away. I drop my voice after three hallelujahs and simply mime the words.

And Professor Kolb gives the signal. And this happens.

HALLELUJAH!! HALLELUJAH!! Hallelu –

Forty voices were supposed to stop. Thirty-nine voices stopped.

One voice continued to sing. Someone wasn’t paying attention to Professor Kolb. And someone kept on singing as loud as possible. Ruining the performance.

And from the corner of my eye, I saw who it was. A red-faced, embarrassed Simone.

And then I looked at Professor Kolb. And while his back was to the audience, so they could not see his face, I could see a tiny hint of disappointment in his gaze. Then he raised his hands up for the final punctuation, for all our voices to shout Hallelu- – – – – jah and end the show. Applause, cheers, all of that.

I said nothing to Simone after the show. Heck, I don’t think I said anything to Simone for the rest of the time our college paths crossed. As far as I was concerned, the comic book mantra came back – she sharpened the pencils, and the pencils eventually sharpened her.

I just simply did what Professor Kolb suggested. I dropped my voice … and looked blessed afterward.

It was the most satisfying “A” I ever received from a Hamilton College course.