Religion: For Men & Boys

The thin, grey-haired man lurched forward, his shirtsleeved arms outstretched, his face askew with horror. With a cry of pain he pointed to a small boy in the silent group before him. "Get out!" he shouted. "Get out!"

Father Eugene O'Malley was rehearsing the Paulist Choir of Chicago's St. Mary's Church, and the sound and fury was something his 100-odd choristers took in stride. He ranged up and down the basement rehearsal hall like a restless spirit, his ears stretching for sour notes and his eyes for inattention. "Watch me!" he shouted. "If you don't watch me, you'll go flying out of here so fast you won't know what happened to you!" Suddenly he swooped. "You're flat! You're throwing everyone else off. Apply yourself!"

Yet last week, at the sold-out concert at Chicago's Civic Opera House, celebrating the famed choir's soth anniversary, such a thing as a flat tone was unthinkable. The program, which ranged from Palestrina to Stravinsky, produced a fortissimo reaction from the music critics. "Cool, thin, silver tone . . . timeless patina," said the Tribune. Said Paulist O'Malley: "It was one of the finest concerts I've ever conducted."

A Lot of Nerve. This was no small thing to say, for St. Mary's Paulist Choir is one of the best in the world. It was well known in 1914, when twelve-year-old Eugene O'Malley first thought of joining it. He had read about its triumphal tour of Europe two years before, when it sang before Pope Pius X.* For years young O'Malley had been practicing the piano and going to almost every concert and opera in Chicago. At his tryout he sang Gounod's Ave Maria straight through with such solemn precision that Father William J. Finn, the choirmaster (now retired), nicknamed him the "professor" and accepted him on the spot.

When Father Finn took a group of boys to New York City in 1918 to form a new choir, O'Malley went along as his assistant director. He spent his spare time at the Metropolitan Opera and his spare cash on Victrola records. On the side he served as choirmaster of St. Gregory's Church, and staged concerts in the grand ballroom of the Waldorf-Astoria. He was just 17 then. "I had a lot of nerve," he admits.

But three years later he decided to give music up to become a priest, a Paulist like his idol, Father Finn. "I had the idea of becoming a priest from a small boy," he says. Manhattan helped."I used to float around with a lot of theatrical people, and they didn't impress me very much." Instead of depriving him of his music, the church gave it back to him.