A few weeks ago I auditioned for the Santa Clarita Master Chorale. The folks must have had ear protection because I’m not sure they heard me. They invited me to sing with them anyway.

The Santa Clarita Master Chorale is a wonderful group of accomplished singers – and me. After one rehearsal and now one performance, I’m once again hooked on singing in a large chorus.

I didn’t sing in a school choir except for a brief time in the chorus at Peachland Avenue Elementary School around 1960. It was fun, but I liked playing my clarinet, and that spread to many other instrumental avenues including bass clarinet, bassoon, oboe, piano, banjo and banjo ukulele. Group singing at school was limited to a few impromptu trios or quartets in the music theory classes at Hart High with Mr. Downs.

I did join the choir of a few local churches here in the SCV when I was a student at Hart. Newhall Presbyterian and Grace Baptist are two I remember. I think I joined those choirs because there was some girl I liked who was in the choir. Hey, it did get me to church. Made my sister happy, too, after she became my guardian following the death of our parents.

Years passed. Lots of years passed. The Navy didn’t want me to play bassoon and offered me a spot playing a saxophone. I picked submarines. It seemed like the better choice at the time.

In Navy boot camp I was assigned a job in the color guard. Since I had a loud and booming voice, I was picked to become the battalion commander of the honor companies at the weekly graduation ceremony from recruit training.

More schools. Little singing. Some folks were happy about that. Went to a submarine in Groton, Conn. – sometimes called “Rotten Groton” – and it was the USS Thomas A. Edison, SSBN 610. That boat had a real piano on board. A 77-key spinet manufactured by Steinway Co.

I cannot repeat the songs I sang while playing that piano. This is a family-oriented medium. Let’s just say it was “sailor singing” and leave it at that. Where else would you find a barbershop quartet called – I’m not kidding – The Velvet Sweat Pig Tabernacle Choir? We sounded good except for the actual words we sang. You see, we wrote our own lyrics. “Ribald” does not cover the type of lyrics and the depths to which we sank with them.

Each Polaris deterrent patrol on that submarine we had the traditional Half Way Night when, after about 50 days under water, we would sing some songs, tell some jokes and in general have a good-time “talent” show. We had a piano to liven the festivities.

Stationed at Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo, I joined a church choir and was introduced to the Solano Choral Society. I auditioned and was selected. Now my singing career shot off like a rocket … no, a very slow, long train plodding up a hill.

Transferred to Virginia, getting accepted in the Virginia Choral Society got me a gig with the Virginia Opera (“Romeo and Juliet” in the chorus – in tights. Almost brought the curtain down with that sight). A little work with the Virginia Symphony, too.

My instrumental “talent” was still there on clarinet in the Tidewater Concert Band. I picked up the banjo and a little banjo ukulele to play with a group that was an offshoot of the bigger band, the Dixieland 7. I did most of the singing for them, and I announced or emceed for both bands.

I know that in the politically correct atmosphere of today, Dixieland music is being called “traditional American jazz,” but that isn’t right. The term “Dixieland” has nothing to do with race or slavery and has everything to do with $10 bank notes issued in New Orleans in the mid-1800s. It bore the numeral “10” and the word “DIX” (French for ten) and was usually called, at least on riverboats, a “Dixie.” Thus the gamblers called the area along the Mississippi River “Dixieland.”

As the music of the area spread, it came to be called “Dixieland” music. I prefer that to calling it traditional American jazz. About the same time the term “Dixieland” was first used, the word “jazz” was a polite way of saying “sex.” Oh, no. I’ve gone and said it now.

By the way, the song, “Dixie,” sometimes thought to be the anthem of the Confederate States of America, was written in Philadelphia before the Civil War. President Lincoln said he liked the tune.

Anyway, back to the story.

The move to Kentucky proved that a four-string tenor banjo and a banjo ukulele can provide some humor to bluegrass music folks. “You’re missin’ a strang on the thang and tother one aint never growed up.” I did enjoy making some music with those folks. Good time and good music.

So out here in California, at home again, I finally got the nerve to audition for the Santa Clarita Master Chorale. I was certain I “bilged” the audition. Imagine my surprise when I was invited to join them. I was pleased to no end.

Not learning anything from the true meaning of the term “NAVY” (Never Again Volunteer Yourself), I found myself at the YMCA Gala on Thursday night, singing with just a small group from the Master Chorale. Folks seemed to like us. Of course I say that because I was one of many and could hide in the back row.

Those of you who know me and what I write might find some humor in that the gala was also a time to thank our congressman, Howard “Buck” McKeon, for his years of service. Gee, I thought the party was going to be after he left office. Oh, the irony of it all.

So we finished our songs and exited the stage. Before I knew it, a gentleman who represents the Chiquita Canyon Landfill came up and said he enjoyed our music. I hope this isn’t the end of my musical journey. Accolades from a dump. My musical talent was lower before, but that was on a submarine.

So all this to say, I’ve had a great time so far, singing with the Santa Clarita Master Chorale. We have some great events coming up in the month of October. Stay tuned.

It is never too late to sing or dance or even play banjo. I must confess I also own a bagpipe chanter. I can’t wait until I’ve mastered that cacophony of sounds. I’ve been told that sometimes my voice resembles those sounds.

Maybe a few who attended the YMCA event were surprised to see and hear me there. Trust me, folks … not as much as I was.

And remember, the Good Book says, “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.” It says nothing about tonal quality or anything else. Just noise. I’m good with that, too.

Darryl Manzer grew up in the Pico Canyon oil town of Mentryville in the 1960s and attended Hart High School. After a career in the U.S. Navy he returned to live in the Santa Clarita Valley. He can be reached at dmanzer@scvhistory.com. His older commentaries are archived at DManzer.com; his newer commentaries can be accessed [here]. Watch his walking tour of Mentryville [here].