Life as a working-class singer

Before I moved to NYC, I made my living as a working class singer. One of the things I did a lot was sing funerals.

I loved singing funerals. To be able to participate in such an event was an honor, and the gravity of it would invariably dispel my anxieties (that are common for us musicians) and I was able to do my best work.

Mostly I sang at local parishes. But one time the funeral was at the cemetery chapel in Colma.

Since I didn't have a car, Andrew, the mortician offered me a ride. We met at the funeral home. The whole motorcade was waiting. I was shocked when I realized my spot was in the passenger seat of the vintage Cadillac hearse carrying the body. We led the caravan down the highway... oh, so slow. I was wearing my dark suit and sun-glasses, and Andrew his mortician suit.

Andrew is about my age and had spent years in the hospitality industry working high-end hotels. He felt like he needed to do something more meaningful, so against the wishes of his family he started working funerals. On the way he told me all about it.

(BTW - have you noticed that you don't generally meet morticians or garbage men? He also told me about the social stigma of being a mortician, and how Six Feet Under humanized the funeral industry a bit.)

I waited in the car with the coffin while he ran into the cemetery office with his license and the death certificate. That was weird. I whispered hello to the body.

This particular funeral was hard. It was long, there was no organist, so I was singing a-capella. They also presented me with some last-minute tunes as I arrived. I didn't bring all the sheet music, so I had to sing from memory.

While I was singing, Andrew was like the invisible master of ceremonies. He was there making sure everything went smoothly (everyone got funeral cards, body being transported, flowers, etc...) Working at funerals gave me a lot of appreciation for the various talents that funeral directors need.

We drove the body to the crypt. I sang a lot more...outside, it was windy and cold. Finally the body was sealed in, and people started to disperse.

I got into the hearse to warm up while Andrew finished all his duties. He finally got in the driver's seat, and a little boy ran up to the door. He was about 8 or 9 and was the grandson of the deceased. He was still holding his white gloves, as he had helped as a pall bearer. He shook mine and Andrew's hands very maturely, and asked if we were partners. He was holding back tears and he thanked us for making his Grandpa's funeral happen. We said thank you back.


Andrew shut the car door. Behind the shaded glass he pulled tissues out of his pocket and cried. He said: "That is why I do this."

We drove back north, and he dropped me off at the BART station near City College. People at the curb stared. He laughed, and said "they're probably wondering what I'm doing leaving a pretty girl here at the curb in my hearse!"

I pondered my morning as I took the bus home. I taught some voice lessons that afternoon, and then went to rehearsal.

That was the day in the life as a working class singer.