Rapid Transit rehearsals have already taught me a few things about myself: I can not sight read sheet music, and I have what seems to be a tenuous grasp (at best) of pitch even when I am singing alone. Throw in five other voices sometimes singing five other notes, and I count myself lucky if I don't throw off the person singing next to me, much less stay on key myself.
I went in recognizing how difficult a cappella singing is, but to experience it first hand is truly humbling. Rehearsals have been difficult.
To mitigate this difficulty, and my ensuing embarrassment in front of amazing singers, I practice diligently at home in the closet during the week. Since Sam and I live in a loft, we have very few doors that don't belong to a bathroom, so the closet is my only other option. (I'm sure there is a gay joke in there somewhere; leave it in the comments and you'll get a prize.) Sam is supportive of course, in his own way, but really, think of the most musically-minded person and consider how many doom-bah-dooms he can stand, then take 18% of that amount and you'll end up with how much Sam can handle before his ears go numb.
So instead of subjecting him to this torture, I sit in the closet with my computer and listen to tinny MIDI files of my part while singing to my clothes. The idea of practicing at home reminds me so much of my younger days when my parents made me take piano lessons. Though I have been playing the piano for over 20 years, it does not show, and I blame my practice habits for that: my piano teacher would require me to practice at home for half an hour, four days a week. This means that my parents required me to practice the same amount. And I would be at my piano for half an hour, four days a week.
Though really, I probably practiced for half an hour total every week. The rest of the time I would fritter away by adjusting the piano bench, tinkering with the metronome, or just reading the sheet music with my eyes while firmly sitting on my hands, tapping a few keys every so often so my parents would hear that I was still "practicing." Anything but to actually practice. I was never going to be a concert pianist, had no interest even in being a lousy pianist, so I didn't understand why I had to sit in front of this monstrous instrument when I obviously was not born with the gift. My mom would give me that old canned line: practicing is good discipline, and you'll be thankful when you're older; I disagreed. When my parents finally let me stop taking lessons, I vowed to permanently divorce myself from the piano.
(And of course, cut to an adult-me trying to find a piano teacher, and kicking myself after learning how expensive lessons are. Why had I squandered all those years of parent-subsidized musical enrichment??)
On hindsight, I don't know why I didn't just practice. The reality of my situation was that for half an hour, four days a week, I was bound to the piano, away from TV and video games, whether I practiced or just sat there twiddling my thumbs. I could have just practiced instead of scrambling to find ways to pass 30 minutes.
(Then again, if I understood the reasons for half of the things I did when I was a kid, or even just from a year ago, what a better person I would be. . .)
Now, between work, the gym, Grr, Sam, and my precious, precious sleep, I seek out opportunities to practice. Ironic, since I used to seek out opportunities to skirt it.
But I have to admit, the practicing is working. Last night, during rehearsal, I felt a rare confidence while singing one of the songs I had drilled particularly hard, even got a "Nice job!" from the director. I guess what mom and dad said ad nauseum when I was growing up might actually have some validity, that some day, I will understand the meaning of hard work, and the value of its rewards.
Sucks when your parents are proven right, years after you tried so hard to prove them wrong.
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