04.03.04
Cantus singers band together to make name for themselves
Minneapolis Star Tribune
Michael Anthony

There's impatience in Erick Lichte's voice when he says, "In terms of live performance, we're probably Minnesota's No. 1 cultural export to the rest of the country -- that is, the most concerts for the most people. It'd be nice if people here knew that."

There's no denying that Cantus' reach is national, perhaps international. Since 2000, when the group turned professional, most of its energy has gone into touring. It does 40 to 60 dates a year, performing in such far reaches as Canada and France. If one excludes the bigger opera choruses, such as that of the Metropolitan Opera, there are only two full-time professional choruses in the United States: Cantus and the group it was modeled on, the San Francisco-based male ensemble Chanticleer.

It may have a busy touring schedule, but Cantus isn't forgetting its home base. The 10-voice male chorus, of which Lichte is a founder and artistic coordinator, has a four-concert Twin Cities stand in the next week.

Cantus, formed by four students at St. Olaf College in Northfield, has worked hard to stand out in a difficult musical niche. Consider these issues:

• Budget. In less than five years, the group's annual budget has grown to nearly $400,000. Cantus receives almost no grant money, and about 95 percent of its income is earned through ticket sales or concert fees. This is unheard of in the not-for-profit world, where most organizations must get as much as 60 percent of their budget from donations. Singers receive salaries of about $20,000 this year ($30,000 last year), which some supplement with other part-time gigs. Singers in part-time professional choruses, by comparison, are paid per-service, and might earn $3,000 to $4,000 in an average year. "Basically," as Lichte (pronounced "light") says, "we've made this work as a small business. We're like the James Brown of choruses: the hardest-working men in the choral music business."

• Repertoire. As reflected in concerts and six self-produced CDs, Cantus tackles a dizzyingly broad range of musical styles. Perhaps only the King's Singers can match the ensemble's span of periods and genres, from Gregorian chant to art songs, folk music, spirituals and pop. The singers favor thematic programming, and they love the odd juxtaposition. A recent set devoted to the sea pairs classical songs by Amy Beach and C. Villiers Stanford with Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" and an avant-garde piece by Estonian composer Veljo Tormis. Many of the singers' arrangements are being published by Neil A. Kjos Music of San Diego under the title "Cantus: Music for Men's Voices."

• Structure. The group's founding premise was "chamber music for voices." That meant there was no conductor and that every musical decision was open for discussion. "That turned out to be crazy," said tenor Brian Arreola. "It could take an hour to discuss four bars." As a remedy, the singers developed what they call the "producer system": Each member is in charge of one piece on an upcoming program, coming up with a concept for the piece and conducting its rehearsal.

Collegial beginnings

Lichte, Arreola, Al Jordan and Kjell Stenberg, all freshmen, found themselves at the same table in the St. Olaf dining hall one night in the spring of 1995. All had been members of the school's Viking male chorus, which is limited to freshmen, and had loved it. They talked about continuing that kind of singing on their own in their sophomore year, which they did, gradually gaining a following on campus and adding a few members as needed for such difficult classical pieces as Britten's "Little Musgrave" (which they will be singing this weekend).

The summer after graduation they hit the road for the East Coast -- 11 singers, a tour manager and a cello, all in a 15-passenger bus -- to sing about two dozen dates that they had lined up on the phone, including a performance at the prestigious Newport Music Festival.

Rob Robbins, a vice president at the Herbert Barrett Management office in New York City, had been tipped off that a male chorus from Minnesota was creating a buzz in choral circles and would be worth checking out. Robbins and a colleague caught up with them at a workshop for choral directors that Cantus was leading north of Boston, after which there was a concert.

"What struck us right off the bat was not only the confidence with which they conducted themselves before these seasoned choral directors, but they really seemed to know what they were talking about," said Robbins, speaking by phone from New York. "Then, when we heard them sing, we were really impressed with their sound, their exuberance and the joy with which they presented themselves."

Normally, Robbins said, given the youth of the singers -- early 20s -- his office would have waited a few years before signing them to a contract. But an agreement was reached that evening -- partly because Chanticleer, which Barrett had been managing for more than a decade, was leaving the agency, leaving room for another male chorus.

The singers spent the next two years in the Twin Cities, getting their act -- and their organization -- together, securing nonprofit status, creating a board of directors and, in Lichte's words, "figuring out who we are and what we want to accomplish." Their mission statement dedicates them "to exalting the human spirit through performances of innovative and engaging musical programs."

In the years since, the singers have performed about 300 concerts around the country, many tied to educational programs, which they prefer. Reviews have been excellent. "Cantus' sonic blend was so beaming and elastic that it seemed to originate as a single, gorgeously variegated voice . . . years of intense preparation are everywhere apparent in their sound," said a Washington Post critic.

The group's recordings have been equally well received, especially the past three: an album of surprisingly varied world folk music ("Let Your Voice Be Heard"), a collection of spirituals ("Deep River') and a somber but intriguing essay on death and resurrection ("Against the Dying of the Light"). The singers' sound, though mercurial, is recognizable for its clarity but especially for the resonance of basses Lichte, Alan Dunbar and Tim Takach, which distinguishes them musically from the more treble-oriented Chanticleer.

The Cantus members talk seriously, almost idealistically, about their musical goals. However, to sit with three of them over lunch -- Lichte, Arreola and Takach -- is to realize something else about them: their deep bond. Years together on the road can produce deep friendship or corrosive irritation. These three actually listen to each other's opinions, and seem able to make the others laugh with just a word or two.

Lichte, for instance, takes credit for coming up with the group's name, (pronounced CON-toose) which means "song" or "melody" in Latin. "In retrospect, it wasn't the best name ever," he said. "We have been called 'Conscience,' 'Cantrus' and 'Cactus' in public, usually when we are being introduced. We would rather be called Thundercats if we could do it again."

They talked about the rigors of the road, about the entire group suffering food poisoning in a small town in Illinois but going onstage anyway. They started the concert with 10 singers; by intermission they were down to 8. Lichte: "That's the worst thing I've ever heard on tour, one of our guys, Alan Dunbar, saying to the rest of the guys who were sick, 'Hey, Dude, if you make yourself throw up, you'll feel better.' "

The members of Cantus are a good-looking bunch (at least when they're not throwing up backstage). This might have had a bearing, however slight, on their success. Asked whether they encounter groupies, Takach, who designs the group's record jackets and other graphics, said no, adding, with some regret, "I think we come off as way too wholesome. People don't think of the groupies thing as an option." Arreola: "We do have a couple more tattoos in the group. Maybe that'll help." Takach: "You don't really see them, though."

The group had just returned from a series of concerts in California. At one of them, in Torrance, near Los Angeles, they sang to 1,300 mostly Latino students as part of a community-college series. Said Arreola, "They came up afterwards and said 'Man, we're required to go to these. This is the first time I wasn't bored.' "

Such experiences are the upside of the Cantus experience. The downside is the sheer amount of work that four students at St. Olaf couldn't possibly have predicted Lichte, who's in charge of repertoire, calls it a 24-hour-a-day job. "I'm always thinking about it," he said. "I'll wake up in the middle of the night, go to the computer and start typing up lists of what I think would be a cool program."

He let out a long sigh. "None of this would exist if it weren't for every member of the group being willing to make enormous sacrifices -- monetarily, time-wise. Right now, next year is pretty much set. But we want this to be not just a livable wage or just scraping by. When we get grant money and private donors, this will be more sustainable, and we won't have to sit on pins and needles every year, worrying about whether there are going to be concerts next year."