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?"