Mandala
It’s Tuesday night at the Sammons Center for the Arts. I’m on the back row of the bass section, popping up like a meerkat to take attendance. Many many many many mennn! we sing to open up our head voice and resonate in the mask. I keep warming up as I check to see who’s here. There’s Fred Mischnick, serving face, even during warm-ups. There’s Bill Forbes and Michael Raines, wincing because the speaker’s too loud. They wave to Jess who flies across the back of the room toward the soundboard with an endearing and exasperated look on his face. There’s Michael Sullivan, holding court in the back of the bass section. There’s Steve Westcott, a few minutes late as usual, but who can be mad at that face?—precious angel with a mischievous twinkle and a snarky comment locked and loaded one hundred percent of the time. Across the room, the tenor ones are cutting up. Dustin Svatek and Brian Dixon add choreography to the warm-up. They shimmy and vogue in unison, and I can’t stop