Unlike a lot of writers, I don’t keep a regular journal. I wish I did. I have somewhere between 15 and 20 potential journals of varying sizes and configurations, ranging from cheap composition exercise books with lined paper to hand-sewn, leather-bound journals with acid free paper made from sustainable forest pulp. No matter. They all have several entries for January of whatever year it was that I had resolved to keep a journal. Some of them have occasional entries as late as mid-February. Since I’m more likely to keep a trip record, some of the stashed journals have details of certain travels. Not one of them, though, offers a consistent record of any year of my life.
Now, having confessed my slovenly journal habits, it should come as no surprise that I can’t be certain of the time frame of this event. I’m pretty sure it was sometime between the spring and winter of 2005.
Mike had followed closely the development of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, delighted to see that Los Angeles would finally have a world-class performance venue. In 1987, Lillian Disney, widow of Walt Disney, donated $50 million for the project. Although Frank Gehry completed the designs in 1991, between added costs and difficulty raising additional necessary funds, the building was not completed until 2003. According to my backup fact checker, Wikipedia, the Disney Hall grand opening was one of the most successful grand openings of a concert hall in American history. Shortly after the opening, Mike sat in on a rehearsal and fell in love with the place. He was itching to sing in the new concert hall.
From 1972 until we moved north in 1998, Mike had sung with the Los Angeles Master Chorale. He was no longer a regular with them, but he did occasionally go to LA to sing in a concert as a ringer when the tenor section needed bolstering. When, in 2005, the director of the Chorale called to say they needed help in the tenor section for an upcoming concert, Mike couldn’t have been happier. He sent his tux to the cleaners. He cleaned and buffed his black patent leather shoes. Since he would only be there for one rehearsal, he looked over the music and practiced the most complicated sections.
The day before the rehearsal Mike flew to LA to spend time with singer friends he’d missed after leaving town. He called home right after the rehearsal, telling me the sound was glorious and raving about the beauty of the building. He was thrilled to be a part of it all. He called again the next night, a bit earlier than expected.
“How was the concert?” I asked.
“I couldn’t do it.”
Although Mike had never been fond of standing on risers for an hour or more, crowded by singers to his right and left, front and back, he’d done it in thousands of concerts in the U.S., Eastern Europe, Western Europe, Japan, Israel, and, I’m sure, others that would be listed in my journals, if I’d kept journals.
“Sweat was pouring off me. I felt faint. I had to get out of there!”
He’d made his way off the risers and to the side exit during the last number before intermission. At intermission he told the director he had to leave. He went back to his hotel room, called me, then spent a sleepless night before catching his early morning flight back home.
A long time friend and fellow Master Chorale singer encouraged Mike to try a beta blocker for next time. It worked for her. She reminded him that in his 30-plus years of singing with the chorale in a myriad of venues, the Disney Hall experience was the only time he hadn’t performed perfectly. He should call the director. It didn’t need to be the end of his Master Chorale experiences. But, embarrassed, afraid the same thing would happen again, he was through.
Whenever he spoke of that experience, which wasn’t often, he always talked about the crowded, narrow risers, and said he got claustrophobic.
I knew how unusual and disturbing that experience had been to Mike. But it never occurred to me that it was anything other than a one-off panic attack. Now, though, I wonder if it was part of the onset of FTD.’