NMS Presents “Spring Concerts” 7th Grade

That exciting time of year had arrived, the 7th grade Spring Concert. My son was performing in the Chorus section. As always, there was the daily drama of deciding whether he even wanted to go. He had a baseball practice he would have much rather attended, but my wife stood firm and said, “School first.” I could not argue with that logic, though I still tried, if only to quote Tina Turner: “I don’t care who’s wrong or right, I don’t wanna fight no more.”

The concert was held at the Newtown High School auditorium, which I appreciated because it has air conditioning and had probably been redone a few times since I went to school there. There is always a small rush of nostalgia walking into places you grew up in. High school hits especially hard. Those years when hormones fused with neurons and everything felt important. The layout of the entrance was mostly the same, and I was reminded of the old Indian mascot sit-in we all participated in; losing to eventually become the Nighthawks.

Inside the auditorium, a folding table held stacks of yellow Spring Concert flyers. I grabbed one quickly. We found seats in the back for a fast getaway and took the aisle so I could stretch my legs. The room was cool and comfortable. Orchestra and band students were already on stage, instruments in hand. Our Chorus kids sat off to the side, waiting for their turn to rise and take the front risers.

The number of pages in the program made me nervous. I had been told this was a 30-minute performance. My fears eased once I saw that the Chorus had only one page, split into a few short segments. One page that stood out to me, though, was titled “Concert Etiquette.” A list of reminders that we should stay seated and quiet, not clap or hum along, and refrain from whistling or cheering. It felt a bit patronizing, like that overeducated, condescending tone adults use when they forget they are speaking to other adults and not children.

The show itself was great. I appreciated the music choices. They were fun, and maybe I am just a big kid, but I recognized every song. Oompa Loompa, Pirates of the Caribbean, A Million Dreams, and Revenge of the Sith. The kids did an admirable job. There were a few sharp strings and flat notes, but you could clearly recognize the melodies. The “One Bow Concerto” was particularly entertaining. There was some confusion about who was sharing the bow, but the first-chair violinist stood out as an inspiring pro.

When the Chorus took the stage, all of us in the audience searched for our familiar face. It brought me back to my own school days. The whispered jokes, giggles, the occasional dropped instrument, a rogue cymbal crash from the wrong section, the class clown who had to get one last laugh before the night was over. The lights hit my son’s face just right. He looked like an angel in his white shirt and black pants.

About forty-five minutes later, we were being thanked by the town’s Music Director. I still do not know her name or official title, but she is always passionately advocating for the arts, music, and theater. She reminds us about some study or another, explaining how kids who sing in Chorus are four times more likely to become cashiers at Big Y than baggers at Caraluzzi’s.

On the ride home, we got the full behind-the-scenes recap. Who messed up, who was being funny, some random conversations. These little details, almost too small to hold onto, are the ones that stick.

It was a nice Tuesday night. Nothing extraordinary. But as I looked over at my son, I realized these moments are the whole point. The music, the memories, the quiet lion’s pride. They are the soundtrack to a childhood we will someday miss. And I am glad we showed up and were present.