Inspired Upon Waking

It was a small venue—an old church, maybe.  Judi Dench sat on an old piano bench against the right wall, looking worried and undecided.  We all sat quietly, but the people around me held thin plastic squares high in the air—no bigger than a matchbook with rounded corners, so I knew it was an Apple product.  Tiny recorders.

“Yes,” Dame Dench finally said in her raspy voice, “I will sing, but absolutely no recording.  Please.”

No one put down their tiny squares, and I felt anger tumble over my need.

“Put them down,” I said, trying for loud and reasonable, but ending up with shaky.  “It’s Judi’s voice, not yours.  It belongs to her.”

More hands lifted in the semi-darkness.

They’re spoiling it, I thought, desperate.  She’ll leave.

Her eyes found mine in the crowd.  “Oh, all right, then.”

She turned to the piano, away from her audience, but did not play it.  She started to sing a Loreena McKennett song acapella, her Shakespearian-raw voice scratching the notes.  She was not a singer, yet she sang.  At 83, she sang.  Recorders be damned.

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