Life Update #1

The Old College Try

A dear friend of mine and I have teamed up and created lists of things we’d like to attempt/conquer, things that take us out of our comfort zone. Playing guitar and singing are at the top of my list. Well, that’s not precisely true. They came out in the middle, which is curious because they are lifelong dreams of mine that I have
continually put on the back burner. [Insert preferred psychological theory here.] Anyway, since then, I’ve rented a guitar, and have picked out classes for which I’d like to register in both voice and guitar at Swallow Hill. Hurray for momentum!

The Artist’s Way

I am in the middle of Week Six, and now I remember why I enjoyed writing my morning pages: they keep me sane! At the same time I’ve felt a little crazier than usual, because the process causes you to reassess, excavate buried dreams, examine and question all kinds of things in your life. The cards have been tossed up in the air and now I’m waiting to see where they land. Oh, and just wait until Week Nine. You get to reread the pages. That’s when things get really interesting.


She's a Dance-Dance-Dance-Dance-Dancing Machine

I was a huge fan of old-school funk/R&B/soul music back in Massachusetts. When I moved here in 2003, I went searching for bands/venues that played that type of stuff; I couldn’t find any. Maybe I wasn’t looking in the right places. It seemed like there were only jam and bluegrass outfits, and suddenly I felt like an alien—the only person on Pearl Street in a black biker’s jacket while everyone else was wearing fleece vests. Without friends or boyfriends to lead me to some music that grooved, I stopped going out to clubs. Then a month ago I came across a group called
the Denver Funk & Soul Meetup. What a godsend. I’ve been out twice now—the
latter of which was to see Soul School at the Hoffbrau in Westminster—and all I
can tell you is that the experience was like water to my parched lips. Added bonus: meeting another woman who’s as crazy about dancing to that kind of music as I.


All in all, not bad for a month’s work! Stay tuned for the next installment. Perhaps I will have handled a non-poisonous snake by then (#24 on the list).

Little Voice

Never ceases to amaze me, the way someone can take an already outstanding song--like Stevie Wonder's "Golden Lady"--and perform it in a totally different way that's just as enjoyable as the original. Jose Feliciano's version sounds effortless, organic, and fresh. The only thing I'd have done differently is remove the strings; less would've been more.

I unconsciously mimic the vocalist of whatever song I'm singing. "Summer Highland Falls": Billy Joel's flattened vowels. "Don't Fence Me In": Ella's bright, forward tone. "Superstar": Karen Carpenter's warmth and depth. The inflections, the pronunciations--those qualities feel like part of the song. Changing them is like changing the words, to my ears. How can you sing Ethel Merman and not imitate her brassy, trumpeting sound? But people do it, all the time. Listen to Jose. Listen to Angelique Kidjo's take on "Voodoo Child". Jimi Hendrix is not rolling over in his grave; the cover is vastly different. And great.

Question: Why am I so attached to singing like other people?

Theory: I'm recreating the joy I have felt as a listener. And that has nothing to do with a desire to put my own spin on anything.

Nonetheless, Liz, my singing teacher, is nudging me to find my own voice. Whatever the heck that is. She made a suggestion to that end: learn something entirely new. Then there's nobody to copy. Do you know Some Enchanted Evening? she asked. Only from the few bars that Don Ameche sang on bended knee to Gwen Verdon in "Cocoon". Not enough for it to be imprinted on the inside of my skull. She gave me the sheet music with a request that I please-please-please refrain from looking it up on YouTube. The translation part was kind of fun. I've never done any sight-reading. Matching the dots and squiggles on paper to actual sound was like solving a puzzle. I color-coded the notes to get a better visual grasp of the melody. Then I sang it at our next lesson.

Same Question: Why am I so attached to singing like other people?

Another theory: I'm afraid that my real voice sounds like crap. Or mediocre at best.

And that's kind of how I felt. It was OK. Not great. I tried to console myself by thinking of other singers who are not stellar in the traditional sense.

Bob Dylan! He's not exactly a crooner. But he is a songwriting pioneer. Jimi Hendrix! Guitar innovator. Donald Fagan! Engineering genius. And that concludes our little foray into existential agony.

What then? I love singing with other people. I don't want to be the weak link. That would be so...

Embarrassing? Oh. Yes.

The memories start flashing past. Suggesting to a vocalist friend of mine that we put something together to sing at an open-mic, and her refusing. Singing backup during a laid-back jam session with my boyfriend's band, and the boyfriend's bandmate scowling at me. Singing a harmony (under my breath, or so I thought) to the song a classmate was singing as part of an oral report, and the teacher saying, "I guess someone else knows that song."

A core truth has come out of this searching. Singing has been the deepest desire of my heart for decades. It's also the thing I've most consistently put on the back burner. I see the pattern now. (1) Dream of singing. (2) Afraid of sucking. (3) Keep dream bottled up. (4) Pressure builds. (5) Act on dream at inappropriate time. (6) Use shame to bottle up dream. (7) Repeat. Now I'm letting the genie out of the bottle. Maybe it will help me move forward.

On a different yet related subject, Liz loaned me a great movie called "Little Voice", which features Jane Horrocks. You may recognize her as the voice of Babs, the slightly obtuse character from "Chicken Run", the movie: "I don't want to be a pie! I don't like gravy..." Horrocks--who does her own singing, by the way--plays a pathologically shy young woman who can imitate Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Shirley Bassey and others perfectly. I think Liz was trying to tell me that, in it's own way, what I do isn't wrong. It's a gift.

P.S.~ I'm toying with the idea of tracking down my ex-husband and leaving him this brief message:

Contrary to what you told me in 1993, Liz thinks I might have perfect pitch. HA!

"That wouldn't make me a...shallow person...would it?"

Answer to the Question

Q: How do I create a life that best expresses who I am?

A: By bringing the things I love closer to the center of my life.

Glad to finally report that I've taken some action in this endeavor:

I'm taking singing lessons! WOO-HOO!

It's amazing. Fabulous. Best money I've ever spent. My teacher ROCKS. (www.elizabethrayvoice.com.) And she's right in Lafayette, which is highly convenient.

Had Lesson #3 today; worked on "Superstar" by The Carpenters.

"Don't you remember you told me you loved me baby?
You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby.
Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby.
I love you, I really do."

I sang this song with my friend Kathy, so it holds a special place in my heart.
[Cue trip down Memory Lane]
The Artist's Way Creativity Camp in Taos, New Mexico, 2000: We're walking in the hills, practicing. Open Mic is a few hours away. Kathy points out that I'm repeating the melody from the first verse on the second verse, and sings the correct notes to jog my memory. That's when she finds out I haven't ever actually heard the whole song all the way through. I knew pieces of it from commercials for Carpenter records, K-Tel compilations, and the only funny scene in the movie "Tommy Boy" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpJYDg9XThc). Caused her a few heart palpitations at the time, I think, but we did all right.

Bringing music into my life through singing--not dating musicians and living vicariously through them--it's a blessing. I feel whole.

What could be better than that?

I don't know. But I'm happy to find out.