Prince and the Formosa Singers

He's all the way to the right, a short, stocky guy you might not guess is as wonderful a musician as he is--maybe a comedian. A wry smile. 

When he introduced himself, he said his name was "Prince." I shook his hand, thought he was serious. Maybe he was. But a full minute later, I remembered this musician from the Twin Cities. Duh! He and the choir had just come from Minneapolis. It was a joke. Maybe. Let's just call him that anyway.

I was there because it was my job to welcome them, the Formosa Singers, a marvelously talented group of choristers who make music into miracle by simply combining their marvelous voices. It was my job to be there when the broasted chicken came out in a gorgeous fall evening. Most of the singers had doffed coats and scarves because our beautiful night was their dead of winter. It was my job to make welcome them to town, to make small talk, not a job I'd much prefer if there were alternatives, even--maybe especially--staying home.

Duty calls, so I went and sat down across the picnic table from Prince, who smiled wildly, welcoming-ly, in fact. Was it his first time in the States? No, fourth. Been to Iowa before? No never. Where then? LA, New York. . .No kidding--well, welcome to the rural Midwest. What do you do for a living? Musician.

For reasons I don't know, I thought this was an amateur choir of wonderful singers, but I didn't think they were professionals. 

No kidding, how so? Musical theater. And I teach. And I have a few choirs too. 

He wasn't kidding. 

I'm not particularly adept at small talk, and I knew Taiwan was a polyglot of ethnics, so I asked what might be considered a questionable question. "I was talking to another guy who said that Taiwan was a tangle of languages--so who are your people?" Chancy, I know, but I'd already run out of small talk.

I assumed he'd say he was ethnically Chinese or Korean, but he used a word I don't remember and probably couldn't spell if I did, then told me, as we ate, that he was one of Taiwan's indigenous people, the non-hyphenated, the original islanders. 

No kidding?

And then, "My family has been Christian for four generations," he announced. I wasn't seeking a testimony, so his bringing it up surprised me. He kept going. "My grandmother started a church herself," he said. What he was telling me, I think, is that he was more like me than he assumed I might have thought. 

I asked him how, way back when, his indigenous family had become Christian. He said white people, missionaries--European, American. 

And then, "We are musical--my people. We are known to be good at music and dancing--like your minorities," he said, smiling, a wry smile, this guy who called himself "Prince."

And tell me, I said, in this country, our indigenous would say that people like me--white people--have historically treated them poorly. In Taiwan, that's true too? 

"Yes," he said. "Yes, it is very true." Serious. 

And then there was a call for a group photo. We were through breaking bread. 

Last night, the Formosa Singers enchanted the audience with exquisite harmonies, some Western, most Taiwanese. Prince often led them. He's small and stocky, not quintessential Asian-looking either. He had two solo parts; one of them had the house breathless, a duet that felt torn from the pages of musical theater.  Twice, he accompanied on the sax. His tenor was as precise as it was immense. He's professional, he said. 

He was a marvelous performer, but it wasn't just music he was playing. Maybe it was just me, but I heard a story too.

The guy in the red shirt below--see him?  I'm thinking maybe he was pulling my leg about his name. Then again, maybe not. Maybe his name really is Prince.