They run. They fidget with their glasses. They squirm. They slouch.

They call Choirmaster James Johnson "Uncle James," but he is more like Master Sgt. He restores order.

"Sit down. Shut up," he yells to the sons of bankers, nurses and people who don't have jobs.

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If that does not work, he doles out push-ups. On some weeks, he makes the choir's Billy Eckstines and Erroll Garners of the future duck walk down the hall.

In rehearsal, the young men stretch their voices and their minds.

"Stand up straight," Pam Johnson said, gently placing her hand on the shoulder of Ben-Sovren. He pushes his chest forward, sings louder.

"Our African-American boys, when they first come, it's very hard for them to stand up straight," she said.

But then, something happens.

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