Welsh Choir
"Choir director Angharad has led the valley's male voice choir for twenty years. When music documentarian James records their sound, harmonies develop beyond the hymns."
The Cwmbach Male Voice Choir had sung through pit closures, recessions, and the slow death of the valleys. As conductor for twenty years, I'd kept them together when economics said we should scatter.
"Ms. Evans?"
The man setting up equipment in our rehearsal chapel was clearly professional—the microphones, the careful placement, the way he'd asked permission before touching anything.
"Angharad. And you're the documentarian."
"James Morrison. I'm recording Welsh choral traditions for the National Archive. I was told your choir is the most authentic."
"We're the most stubborn. Authentic is what people call it when they mean old-fashioned."
"I mean exceptional." He gestured at my men, warming up in their seats. "This sound—this particular blend of voices—it can't be replicated. It can only be preserved."
Preservation became his mission and my collaboration. Over weeks of recordings, James captured not just the singing but the stories—why the men came, what the choir meant, how music had held communities together when industry abandoned them.
"Why do you do this?" he asked one evening. The choir had gone home; we were reviewing recordings.
"Because these men need somewhere to belong. Because their fathers and grandfathers sang in this same chapel." I played back a track. "Listen to that bass section. Those are miners' sons singing what miners sang. If we stop, that connection breaks."
"That's heritage as therapy."
"That's community as survival. Therapy is what doctors call it. We just call it Tuesday rehearsal."
"Can I come to more than Tuesdays?" His hand found mine near the mixing board. "Angharad. I've recorded choirs across Britain. I've never heard anything like what you've built."
"I didn't build it. I just conduct it."
"You hold it together. That's harder than building." He moved closer. "I want to understand how."
We kissed in the chapel while the recorded voices played back around us, his documentarian's mouth warm against my conductor's lips. The harmonies seemed to approve.
"My cottage is near the chapel," I said.
"Show me where conductors rest."
The cottage was music made domestic—scores everywhere, a piano that dominated the parlour, the evidence of a life lived in service to sound. James looked around with professional appreciation.
"This is dedication."
"This is obsession. Dedication sounds healthier than it is."
"This is beautiful obsession."
We made love while the valley slept, our bodies finding harmonies that the choir had taught me to hear. James touched me with documentarian's attention—capturing details, preserving moments, ensuring nothing was lost.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for conducting."
"You're built for leading." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful sound I've recorded."
We came together while the chapel waited for Sunday, both of us finding completion that felt like a final chord—resolved, perfect, hanging in the air. When I gasped his name, it was with the same satisfaction I felt at a flawless performance.
"Stay," I said.
"In the valleys?"
"In my choir. In my life." I touched his face. "The recording will finish. The music won't."
He stayed. The documentary became definitive—broadcast nationally, archived permanently. But more than that, my choir gained a chronicler who understood why we sang.
"We're harmonising together now," James said one night.
"We're keeping time together."
"Is that different?"
"It's better. Harmonising is easy when you're talented. Keeping time—that requires commitment." I pulled him closer. "I'm committed."
The choir still sings. The valleys still echo. And now there's a documentarian who became a conductor's partner, who found in Welsh voices everything he'd been listening for.