SNL’s Christmas Queens Shine—but Can They Rescue Our Vanishing Choirs?

Mia Reynolds, 12/22/2025This article explores the decline of collective singing in schools and its implications for student well-being. Highlighting the contrast between state and private schools, it advocates for accessible music programs, emphasizing the importance of letting voices be heard, regardless of skill.

Yet even with stars—Cher among them, no less, striding in holiday finery and belting out “DJ Play a Christmas Song” before launching into a raucous “Run Rudolph Run”—there’s a quieter question somewhere under all that tinsel: Where does this urge to sing, or even care about music, actually come from? No one’s born primed for SNL. The first time most voices tangle together isn’t in front of cameras but in those echoing school halls—lined up in assemblies, waiting for that first nervous “Silent Night.”

Funny thing, though. Somewhere between primary and secondary, that togetherness fizzles. A 2024 survey out of England brought a rather gloomy bit of data: over half of state secondary school teachers said their students basically never sang together at assembly. Whole-school choirs were edging toward rarity status, more relic than routine. The contrast at private schools was almost stark—three-quarters had multiple choirs, where state schools had barely a quarter pulling that off. Big gap.

The whys aren’t simple. According to Jackie Bowen, who helms The East Manchester Academy, teenagers start seeing singing as uncool—gone are the days of being gently herded through “He’s Got the Whole World.” She insists, with a pretty infectious conviction, on music being not just a nice-to-have but key to student well-being, confidence, even academic stamina. Her school’s answer? Slip music into the seams—class changeovers with classical melodies, weekly hubs where anyone can join, and, perhaps most innovatively, a freshly-minted gospel choir. It’s about making music “for everyone,” she says. The odds may be long, but the notes keep coming.

Perhaps the simplest wisdom, though, comes from Mercy, a Year 11 who puts it without a hint of pretension: “In primary they say you have to sing, but when you come to secondary it’s a choice, so most people don’t do it. I feel like we should all release our voices to the world. Whether you’re good or not, just sing.” Out of the mouths of not-quite babes, as they say.

There’s something heroic, really, in that sort of everyday bravery—choosing to contribute your own, possibly off-key voice when everyone else looks down at their shoes. That very mix of nerves and lift were easy enough to spot at the Barbican, where James MacMillan’s Christmas Oratorio unspooled with both icy restraint and sudden, brass-soaked joy. The BBC Symphony Chorus, whisper-quiet in places, unfolded “O magnum mysterium” with an eerie delicacy, upper voices floating like frost just out of reach. Twin soloists—Roderick Williams and Rhian Lois—found a strange chemistry in the material’s ups and downs. Even current critics, some of them almost allergic to sentiment, admitted to being moved.

It doesn’t hurt, of course, when the orchestras are well-funded and rehearsal rooms don’t need to double as storage cupboards. Promises for new government arts initiatives floated around the last budget cycle; talk of refurbished music rooms and instrument grants peppered political campaign stops as recently as February 2025. Still—statistics don’t lie—music GCSE numbers have dropped by a quarter in the last fifteen years, making it clear that goodwill isn’t the same as access. There’s also the chronic shortage of trainee music teachers; the 2025 targets remain stubbornly out of reach, with estimates showing a 35% shortfall yet again.

James Manwaring, president of the Music Teachers Association, trimmed it down to basics: “All you need is a room and someone to lead it and a handful of students. It’s a shame to think some state schools aren’t capitalising on that.” Could it really be so simple? Maybe not, but the foundation remains: making space, letting voices meet.

All those showy moments—Grande riffing her way through a yuletide classic, Cher reminding everyone why she’s still music’s patron saint of reinvention—can feel galaxies away from a school hall in Salford, Sheffield, or anywhere, really. But take a closer look and there’s an unbroken thread winding through it all—a near-miraculous act of collective singing, off-key perhaps, but never out of place.

So the lights will go down on Studio 8H, file cabinets will be pushed back into music rooms, and, sooner or later, the sparkle of the season will be boxed up for next year. Still, if Mercy and her peers are out there, tossing their voices skyward, the whole thing continues—an imperfect, absolutely necessary tapestry, singing us forward from stage to street, holiday to ordinary Tuesday, year after changing year. Funny how that works.

Studio 8H, under its holiday lights, sparkled with the same warmth that hovers over late December streets—familiar but never quite losing its power to charm. Ariana Grande, a star who tends to make both music and mayhem look easy, breezed onto the Saturday Night Live stage as if she’d never left. Her monologue? Well, it wove in Mariah’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” and quickfire bits with Bowen Yang. The whole thing felt less like scripting and more like, say, catching someone humming at a kitchen counter and realizing you’ll carry that tune for the rest of the day.Yet even with stars—Cher among them, no less, striding in holiday finery and belting out “DJ Play a Christmas Song” before launching into a raucous “Run Rudolph Run”—there’s a quieter question somewhere under all that tinsel: Where does this urge to sing, or even care about music, actually come from? No one’s born primed for SNL. The first time most voices tangle together isn’t in front of cameras but in those echoing school halls—lined up in assemblies, waiting for that first nervous “Silent Night.”Funny thing, though. Somewhere between primary and secondary, that togetherness fizzles. A 2024 survey out of England brought a rather gloomy bit of data: over half of state secondary school teachers said their students basically never sang together at assembly. Whole-school choirs were edging toward rarity status, more relic than routine. The contrast at private schools was almost stark—three-quarters had multiple choirs, where state schools had barely a quarter pulling that off. Big gap.The whys aren’t simple. According to Jackie Bowen, who helms The East Manchester Academy, teenagers start seeing singing as uncool—gone are the days of being gently herded through “He’s Got the Whole World.” She insists, with a pretty infectious conviction, on music being not just a nice-to-have but key to student well-being, confidence, even academic stamina. Her school’s answer? Slip music into the seams—class changeovers with classical melodies, weekly hubs where anyone can join, and, perhaps most innovatively, a freshly-minted gospel choir. It’s about making music “for everyone,” she says. The odds may be long, but the notes keep coming.Perhaps the simplest wisdom, though, comes from Mercy, a Year 11 who puts it without a hint of pretension: “In primary they say you have to sing, but when you come to secondary it’s a choice, so most people don’t do it. I feel like we should all release our voices to the world. Whether you’re good or not, just sing.” Out of the mouths of not-quite babes, as they say.There’s something heroic, really, in that sort of everyday bravery—choosing to contribute your own, possibly off-key voice when everyone else looks down at their shoes. That very mix of nerves and lift were easy enough to spot at the Barbican, where James MacMillan’s Christmas Oratorio unspooled with both icy restraint and sudden, brass-soaked joy. The BBC Symphony Chorus, whisper-quiet in places, unfolded “O magnum mysterium” with an eerie delicacy, upper voices floating like frost just out of reach. Twin soloists—Roderick Williams and Rhian Lois—found a strange chemistry in the material’s ups and downs. Even current critics, some of them almost allergic to sentiment, admitted to being moved.It doesn’t hurt, of course, when the orchestras are well-funded and rehearsal rooms don’t need to double as storage cupboards. Promises for new government arts initiatives floated around the last budget cycle; talk of refurbished music rooms and instrument grants peppered political campaign stops as recently as February 2025. Still—statistics don’t lie—music GCSE numbers have dropped by a quarter in the last fifteen years, making it clear that goodwill isn’t the same as access. There’s also the chronic shortage of trainee music teachers; the 2025 targets remain stubbornly out of reach, with estimates showing a 35% shortfall yet again.James Manwaring, president of the Music Teachers Association, trimmed it down to basics: “All you need is a room and someone to lead it and a handful of students. It’s a shame to think some state schools aren’t capitalising on that.” Could it really be so simple? Maybe not, but the foundation remains: making space, letting voices meet.All those showy moments—Grande riffing her way through a yuletide classic, Cher reminding everyone why she’s still music’s patron saint of reinvention—can feel galaxies away from a school hall in Salford, Sheffield, or anywhere, really. But take a closer look and there’s an unbroken thread winding through it all—a near-miraculous act of collective singing, off-key perhaps, but never out of place.So the lights will go down on Studio 8H, file cabinets will be pushed back into music rooms, and, sooner or later, the sparkle of the season will be boxed up for next year. Still, if Mercy and her peers are out there, tossing their voices skyward, the whole thing continues—an imperfect, absolutely necessary tapestry, singing us forward from stage to street, holiday to ordinary Tuesday, year after changing year. Funny how that works.