Just a Room and Notes

Music has always been a major part of my life in many forms; playing the piano, singing in choirs, playing brass instruments, teaching students the knowledge I’ve accumulated over the last 29 years, or standing in front of a choir and conducting.

Music and I have shared almost every significant moment of my life. It has been there for celebrations, disappointments, successes, failures, and everything in between.

But without the people, what do you really have?

Just a room.

A piano waiting to be played.

Empty chairs arranged in neat rows.

Sheets of music resting on stands.

Notes hanging silently in the air.

Because music, for all its beauty, is only half the story. The other half is the people who bring it to life.

It’s the bass who always arrives ten minutes early and sits in exactly the same seat every week.

It’s the tenor who insists he can’t sing the top note, only to hit it perfectly when it matters.

It’s the conversations before rehearsal starts, when nobody is talking about music at all. Instead we’re discussing holidays, grandchildren, work, the weather, and whatever happened to be on the news that morning.

It’s the tea break where somebody has brought biscuits, somebody else is trying to avoid them, and somebody is telling a story they’ve told at least five times before. Everyone listens anyway.

It’s the gentle grumbling when a piece is difficult. The laughter when a section falls apart completely. The look across the room when everyone knows exactly whose fault it was, even if nobody says a word.

It’s watching new members walk through the door looking nervous and unsure of themselves, then seeing them become part of the furniture six months later.

It’s the friendships that form between people who would never have crossed paths otherwise.

I was reminded of this recently when I went along to a mixed voice choir rehearsal in Tettenhall with a fellow choir member.

In the spirit of “let’s try new things” and attempting to get back into some vague realm of happiness, I thought it might be good to be in a musical space where I wasn’t the person in charge.

And honestly, there was a lot to like.

Lovely repertoire. Friendly people. A different room. A different sound. A different way of doing things.

And they had tea and biscuits in the break, which frankly we need to bring back everywhere. I’m not saying it fixes everything, but a decent brew and a biscuit halfway through rehearsal does wonders for morale.

But then came the sliding.

Oh my word, the sliding.

And suddenly there I was, trying very hard to be “just Jordan in the choir” while my inner Musical Director was pacing around like a man who had just discovered a crime scene.

This is the problem, I think. When music has been part of your life for so long, you don’t always know how to switch that part of your brain off. You walk into a room wanting connection, but part of you is still listening for tuning, vowels, breath, balance, entries, endings, and whether the choir has collectively scooped into a note like it’s trying to reverse park a Transit van.

It doesn’t make them bad. In fact, quite the opposite. They seemed warm, friendly, welcoming, and full of exactly the kind of community I keep saying music is supposed to create.

Maybe they simply prioritise enjoyment, warmth, and belonging over the sort of obsessive technical detail that makes conductors twitch slightly in public.

And maybe that’s the lesson.

Not every choir has to be my choir.

Not every musical space has to be something I fix, shape, polish, or quietly redesign from the back row.

Sometimes it should be enough to turn up, sing something different, meet new people, have a cup of tea, eat a biscuit, and let the room be what it is.

As I’ve been writing this, I’ve realised that some of the loneliness I’ve felt over the last few years has probably followed me into music as well.

When you’re the Musical Director, the teacher, or the person in charge, you’re often standing slightly outside the circle. Close enough to see all the friendships, conversations, and connections forming around you, but not always close enough to be part of them.

It’s a strange feeling. A room can be full of people talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company, and yet you can still feel completely alone.

Not because anyone has done anything wrong. In fact, quite the opposite. You’re watching people connect, and you’re genuinely pleased they are. But every now and then there’s a quiet reminder that being responsible for the room isn’t quite the same thing as belonging to it.

Maybe that is what I was really looking for in Tettenhall.

Not perfection.

Not another choir to conduct.

Not another room to improve.

Just somewhere I could be one of the people.

Somewhere I could walk in, sit down, sing my part, have a cup of tea, eat a biscuit, and go home having belonged to something without having to hold it all together.

For years, I think I assumed music was the thing that kept bringing me back.

Maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was always the people.

And maybe, after spending so many years standing at the front of the room, I’m still learning how to sit in one of the chairs.

Because without the people, it’s just a room and a collection of notes.

With them, it’s music.