Last month, Pinkie veteran Michael Derrick celebrated his third decade in the choir. Whilst an active singing (and dancing) member, he has also been the Musical Director (1988 – 1992), accompanist and one of our favourite arrangers. Here, he describes how the choir has (or hasn’t) changed over the last thirty years and what being in the choir means to him.
My first rehearsal was on the last Sunday of October, 1986. It was on a Sunday afternoon because that was the only time the whole choir was free: before the liberalisation of opening hours, pubs closed after lunchtime drinking and didn’t open again until the evening. What else was there to do? Join a choir, obviously.
The rehearsal was in the basement of the London Lesbian and Gay Centre: a dingy space with a low ceiling, out-of-tune piano, no natural light, and the smell of cigarettes and beer from the previous night’s disco. We ‘suffered for our art’. There were about 15 regular singers; all men. The repertoire consisted of show tunes, protest songs, and earnest post-war German cabaret lieder. The other choirs in Europe were into pop songs and classical music but they tolerated our seriousness because we had Margaret Thatcher, Section 28 and an age of consent of 21. They knew that we were “Pink” because that was the colour of the triangle that homosexuals were forced to wear by the Nazis.
“Every rehearsal was part of a build-up to a concert: a performance and then a new set of repertoire and so on. And at every rehearsal there was the aim of putting on the next concert. So there was a very well defined set of objectives for each rehearsal. That was the choir that I joined and it’s more or less the structure that has survived to this day”.
Thirty years later we are still Pink, still protesting, and still rehearsing on Sunday afternoons; but a lot has changed. Most notably we are a mixed choir. “Mixed” usually means Men and Women. I am proud to say that we are much more mixed than that!
We are bigger, of course, and the repertoire is wider. Early photos show us using music – now everything we perform is off copy; early video shows us standing still or walking about on stage making simple gestures – now we have full choreography. When I go for a health check-up I always tell the nurse that I do a four hour singing and dancing rehearsal each week. This always convinces the nurse that I am keeping fit…
A strength of the choir is the large number of members who write arrangements. In the early days, arrangements had to be written because that was the only way we could perform the songs we wanted to sing. When women started to join the choir, songs were regularly re-arranged to give the increasing numbers of higher voices something to sing. We continue this tradition and it makes us very special – not many choirs do it.
“The first concert I conducted was the first concert the Pink Singers gave with women and men performing. Before that, there were women and men together on the marches, but it was the first concert. And for every single concert since then there has been a range of voices and genders in the choir. And that’s something I’m extremely proud of.”
There have been many other changes over the years but one thing has stayed exactly the same: after my first rehearsal we all went to the pub. The social side of the choir is very strong. It has often been described as a family. Friendships have been made and relationships forged. It has been a complete delight to have been a Pinkie for thirty years.
Our stories and experiences about coming out can change perceptions, create new advocates for equality and perhaps most importantly, allow someone who’s thinking about coming out to take that step. Today, 11 October, is the 28th anniversary of 
I went away to university the September of the year I turned 18. I’d cautiously come out to a select few friends and family members over the preceding months, and the reactions had been mixed to say the least, so I couldn’t wait to start afresh. First thing I did was join the then-LGB society (it feels strange to type that now), and found myself surrounded by people like me for the first time in my life. It was a heady feeling, liberating and startling and overwhelming and reassuring all at once. I met the woman who would go on to become my partner to this day, met friends whose struggles and victories became interwoven with mine, and finally reached a place where I felt strong enough to be honest with my parents.
We drove home the next day. By this point my concept of home had already shifted to university, to my girlfriend and friends who accepted me, rather than the place I’d been born and lived the first 18 years of my life. I sincerely thought that I was leaving and never coming back, but some part of my brain wasn’t willing to give up that easily. I loved my parents, even if they couldn’t give me the unconditional acceptance I’d hoped for, and when I got back to uni I called to let them know I was okay. The conversation was stilted and careful, over quickly – as all our conversations would be for the next six months or so – and made no mention of what I’d said or what had happened afterwards.
And the thing is, it really does get easier. That first time – telling your parents, your friends, whoever the big, important ‘first’ is to you – is huge no matter how they react, but you never stop having to come out after that. There will always be a new neighbour, some relatives you haven’t seen for ages, new colleagues or classmates, some random customer service person or healthcare professional… These people will make assumptions about you, and sometimes, you’ll have to correct those assumptions. Don’t try and take responsibility for other people’s feelings: if they’re disgusted or upset or otherwise negative, that’s all on them, not on you. I’m not saying you should be hard-hearted, but you do need to learn what is and isn’t worth worrying about, and trust me, someone else’s opinions on how you should live your life falls firmly into the ‘not worth it’ category.
