Sitting at my computer, headphones in hand and wearing top-half concert dress, bottom-half pyjamas, this is shaping up to be the most bizarre performance I have ever given. I’m about to join Eric Whitacre’s Virtual Choir, made up of singers from all over the world recording themselves singing his composition Sleep.
Sitting at my computer, headphones in hand and wearing top-half concert dress, bottom-half pyjamas, this is shaping up to be the most bizarre performance I have ever given. I’m about to join Eric Whitacre’s Virtual Choir, made up of singers from all over the world recording themselves singing his composition Sleep.
As I come to the end of the tutorial video, which is essentially an admirably concise, if one-way, rehearsal, the composer says, ‘I guess that’s it – let’s make some music,’ and his broad smile fades to black. Not feeling entirely prepared, I clear my throat and press record.
Before I sing a note, though, there are a final few instructions for the singers, the equivalent of a pep talk before a big concert, but much more practical. Make sure your face is well lit – check. Black clothes only – well, my pyjamas are below my webcam’s line of sight, so check. Room as quiet as possible – this is London, so I guess it’s relative. Check.
And then there he is, in my internet window: Eric Whitacre, arms waving, conducting no one but everyone. When he gives the downbeat, I embark upon my solo rendition – how I hope the neighbours aren’t home.
It turns out that keeping in time with a choir you can’t hear isn’t easy. But I get to the end and upload the video to YouTube, and that’s it – I’ve joined the world’s most inclusive choir. If you’ve got a webcam and ten minutes to kill, you can do the same.
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