Candle wax drips onto the holder and the last trickle of wine is poured out between glasses, before another bottle is uncorked. A window is opened and an icy breeze seeps in. People are picking at the cheese board, while others linger in the corridor, rapt in conversation. The sound of talking fills every inch of the room. Then there’s the familiar plink of piano keys. Someone at the party has requested a song. As it becomes clear which carol has been chosen, everyone gathers around to start singing. Arms are slung over shoulders and suddenly a cacophony of voices becomes one.
This is often the way that soirées end when I visit my friends who own a piano. In the city, having such an instrument is rare because of space restrictions and poor sound insulation. But we know that when we come here, there’s a good chance that this is where the evening will lead. I have known these particular friends since childhood and both are musically inclined – one now does it professionally. I have spent many hours singing with them in choirs, on school buses and at concerts over the years. We have grown up together, played together, made mistakes together, become ourselves together. Singing with them feels natural. It would feel odd if we didn’t do it any more.
At their dinner parties, there are usually a handful of guests I’ve never met before, who didn’t see me navigate adolescence disgracefully like our hosts did. But by the end of the night, we’re all throwing our hands in the air, riotously belting “five gold rings” when the moment comes in “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, and we too are now bonded. It’s the “ice-breaker effect” of singing, as one Oxford study called it. We sing longer when it’s spontaneous, going through all of the old favourites until the small hours. This pursuit isn’t reserved for the wintertime. Beyond festivities, we gravitate towards anything from Squeeze’s “Tempted” to Ivor Novello’s “We’ll Gather Lilacs”, depending on whether the mood calls for 1980s pop-rock or wartime anthems. But at this time of year, there are myriad songs from which to choose that are universal. Christmas is one of those rare times when everyone, whether religious or not, can join in and sing. The festive repertoire is wonderfully forgiving: its melodies tend to be memorable, its rhythms clear, its refrains repetitive. You can arrive halfway through and still find your way in.
There’s something truly cathartic about singing in a group in this way. It feels good to allow your voice to travel out, to feel your lungs fill and empty, your ribs expand, your throat open. Singing together forces everyone to breathe to the same rhythm. The vagus nerve, which is directly connected to the vocal cords, puts the nervous system into a relaxed state and controlled exhalation releases endorphins – related to pleasure and feelings of wellbeing – as well as strengthening your heart.
Singing in a choir has been studied as a way to enhance quality of life for those with various health conditions. Notably, researchers have found that it improves the ability of Parkinson’s patients to articulate and it helps to prompt memories in those with dementia. Also, you connect in real time with those around you, which is increasingly difficult in the digital age.
Many evolutionary biologists and psychologists believe that singing predates formal language. It is arguably a more immediate way to connect with others than with words alone. There’s evidence from the Upper Palaeolithic period (which began about 50,000 years ago) that suggests that early humans gathered around fires to sing, orally passing down traditions to successive generations. Even now, with developed language at our disposal, singing can help us to bond more effectively than speech. A 2022 US study found that it produced greater positive feelings for choir members than conversing with one another, with an increased sense of social connectedness.
In modern history, singing has been a tool of solidarity – think of the spirituals sung on US plantations to provide hope and unite people during the dark times of slavery. Sailors in the age of exploration sang sea shanties to help synchronise labour. And then there’s the singing that happens in places of worship: united, liberated, whole-bodied. Such environments have been a fertile training ground for some of the world’s greatest vocalists. Aretha Franklin, Elvis Presley, Sam Cooke, Luciano Pavarotti and Patsy Cline all spent their childhoods singing in churches.
The best singers are not necessarily those with the best instruments but those who warble unselfconsciously and from the heart – something that being part of a choir facilitates. For most people, standing alone on a stage and singing a tune takes courage: they need to prepare mentally, calm their nerves and find a way to lean into the performance. But stand shoulder to shoulder beside others tackling the same song and the weight is gone. All that’s left is the joy of it. If your voice wobbles, there are many other voices to catch it. If you come in late, somebody else is already carrying the phrase. Sociologist Émile Durkheim coined the term “collective effervescence” to describe the sacred, electric joy that happens when a community moves and sings together. You become something larger than yourself, more than an individual, and feel the underlying happiness of being human.
So, every December, these melodies resurface from hymn books, old recordings and our memories. Some date back hundreds of years; some are sentimental or spiritual; many are ridiculous (see “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, in which the carollers begin demanding figgy pudding and refuse to leave until they get some). But therein lies the charm. When the last chord is played, glasses are topped up – and it’s on to the next.
