His hands were living batons drawing thunder and whisper from 28 voices. Magic wands
blending eight hours a week of concerts and rehearsal. No flailing a la Leonard Bernstein—
no haughty criticisms, no impatient taps on a music stand. Our director was always off-book—
readying us for performance with beats—pausing, speeding-up, teasing, coaxing. But Mr. Plot’s hands danced hardest—sussing out the meaning of the words—squeezing rapture from those
lucky enough to sing in Davidson College’s male chorus. To steep in music’s essence.

“Not quite. . . try it one more time,”
Mr. Plot kept repeating. Three weekly
practices–-90-minutes each—
for months. We mastered German
and Latin classics. But couldn’t
metabolize Russian. In six-part
harmony the Orthodox Easter Mass
glorifies death and resurrection
Hos po dee pumil u wee chants
—follow Jesus’ body down lower
and lower to an a cappella whisper
—that we couldn’t seem to sustain.
The last practice before the tour
Mr. Plott leaned forward and said,
“One last chance to get it right.
The monks put all their body
into their chant.” On tour, he led
led us in Gregorian harmonies—
Hos po dee pumil u wee / He is risen
Rising in wave after wave from
the bowels of earth and every body
in the chorus. Raising hair on our necks.
Bringing listeners to tears. Memories
that now still catch breath. Mist the eye.