We called him Duke. I don’t know the official reason, but I like to think it was a sign of respect, that he was regal in his strong, soft-spoken way. Most high school choral directors have an exuberance, a commanding voice. Duke was exuberant in an understated way and his voice was compelling, not commanding. He had a gentle strength, a magic way with high school choristers, which is magical in itself. Years before Glee was a thing, being in one of Duke’s choruses was cool. I joined only because I was a music nerd. Duke put me in the alto section and told me it was ok to “sing out.” Me, no, I wasn’t going to “sing out,” I was in the middle of a bunch of glam girls (think The Plastics from Mean Girls). With Duke’s encouragement, timid voices flew. Duke would smile and mouth the words while conducting us with flailing arm motions that made it seem like he was dancing upside-down.
“People!” he would say to get our attention. “People, people, people!” if we were too chatty. We knew that we were his people, we were chorus people, not just students, He blended our voices in such a way that we learned how beautiful humans could sound.
“Men!” he would say-shout. “Just sing it out! Your voices will follow you! Do not be afraid!” And the high school boy-men would sound like gentle warriors. The Plastics (I wish I’d known to call them that then) lent their voices to the whole, and with the focus that Duke demanded, we became one voice.
I took Music Theory from Duke, too. I learned so much that the dreaded Theory 101, the terror of many freshman music majors, was easy and I aced it. He taught us in a way that opened up the mystery of how notes combine to create beautiful harmonies or tense dissonances. “There’s not really a why,” he would say. “It’s because music is mystical.” I didn’t know what that meant then. Mystical? I think Duke was a mystic in his way, and a musical visionary. He programmed pieces far beyond many high school choirs. And we learned the music. No one ever questioned his choice of programming, even the Broadway show tunes. There was something quietly compelling about all of it. Just like him.
Senior year, I managed to get myself kicked out of the spring concert orchestra for missing a rehearsal. It was mortifying for a music nerd, especially because I was president of the orchestra. “Just come and sing,” Duke said while giving me a half hug. “No one can be kicked out of music.” I didn’t know the parts because I was supposed to be sitting in the orchestra. But I tried. At the beginning of the concert, Duke winked at me and smiled. “Just sing,” he mouthed.
He was a kind and loving teacher. I never saw him lose his temper, be mean, or humiliate someone (a popular tactic with some music teachers then). He showed us the magic and mystery of music; he encouraged and celebrated our musical wins. He saw us, but most of all he heard us.
I imagine him welcomed into the hereafter by a cosmic chorus befitting a director who got high-schoolers to sing Randall Thompson’s Alleluia. Pretty darn well, I might add.
Godspeed, Duke.
Don Snider 1935-2024
May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Your kind and generous tribute touched me deeply.
He sounds like he was a wonderful director and a wonderful human being -- those two don't always coincide! You got lucky. I did too (though my high school choir director was a tiny, cig-smoking, gum-chewing baritone lady). She got a lot of kids to stay in school!