10 hours ago
Sing the Damn Song: Pride, Power, and the Joy of Sounding Like You
I've been thinking about my first love lately. No, not my first serious boyfriend, Paul, nor my first hardcore crush in high school, Rick (oh, how cute he was in his corduroy OP shorts!), nor Patrick Duffy in the too-short-lived '70s TV show, The Man from Atlantis.
My very first love, the first thing that gave me an identity, that made me feel like my authentic self, was singing. Singing was the first thing that surpassed all my weaknesses, that was a quality in myself that I knew was special.
As a kid, I was super self-conscious. I was short, chubby, and allergic to everything green that grows. My brothers and sister were all super smart and on teams where they ran outside in the Arizona heat, throwing balls, hitting balls, and kicking balls. I've never understood that. Why would you want to be outside running around, sweaty and gross, when you could be inside in the air conditioning, in closer proximity to where snack cakes are kept?
When I was in about third grade, my music teacher, Miss Balkenbush, took me aside after class. She told me about the Phoenix Boys Choir, an all-boys group that is internationally recognized for excellence and performs around the country and the world. They were holding auditions, and she thought that I should try out.
I remember running home after school to tell my folks and hope they'd let me audition. Well, they did, and I was lucky enough to spend five years in the choir, touring Europe, Canada, and the country, even singing at the National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony and meeting President Carter. The kids at school took my membership in the choir as another opportunity to bully me, but I knew that singing for the president was way cooler than being on any soccer team.
I sang all through high school, fell in love with musicals in high school, and moved to New York. I pursued a career in theater, and although I had a high caliber of rejection (there were several Broadway shows that didn't want me in them), mostly I waited tables.
One thing about my singing: No one ever accused me of having a beautiful voice. Or even a pretty one. Usually, if my singing was described at all, it was called 'good' or 'strong.' When I moved away from pursuing singing, no one was disappointed.
Fast-forward to five years ago. My life has moved away from pursuing a professional performance career (although I dip my toe in from time to time). But a few years ago, I realized I was neglecting my first love. I missed singing, so I found a new voice teacher.
In our first lesson, my teacher stopped me after singing only one phrase. 'Too much,' he said.
'Too much what?' I asked.
'Too much air, too much tongue, too much pushing, too much, too much!' He also informed me that I was a tenor, a notion to which I scoffed. Never in my whole life have I been able to sing any kind of high note without blood spurting from my vocal chords, let alone a tenor-type range.
Alas, the teacher was right. Neal Harrelson (that's his real name, in case you're in need of a voice teacher) has taught me, in the past few years, that I am indeed a tenor, with a high B-flat, no less! I've also realized how difficult it is to sing, and sing healthfully. Neal has given me a technique that gives me more confidence in my sound than I've ever had. Still not a beautiful sound, but free and without tension or anything unhealthy.
I started working on a song about six months back that I feel I have no business singing, it's so beautiful and outside of my skill set. ('Answer Me' from the musical The Band's Visit.) But I wanted a challenge, and I figured that whatever I learn in this hard song, I can transfer over to easier material.
Skip ahead to a few weeks ago. We're working through the song with Neal plunking a rudimentary accompaniment (he plays piano like a precocious second grader). I started from the beginning of the song, really concentrating, focusing on how I'm making the sound more than what my voice sounds like. I was feeling like the song was going well, and made it to the end.
After the last note, both Neal and I were silent. Then he said, 'Oh, my God, that was beautiful! That was beautiful!'
We were both in tears as he continued, 'That's bel canto, honey. That's bel canto. That's beautiful singing!
I left that lesson on a cloud. Realizing how I've not only made progress in my vocal technique, but my first love rewarded me with dulcet tones.
During this Pride, among your passionate protests, sparkly dances, and wonton pleasures, I invite you to honor your first love.
Write that book. Sing that song. Crochet that afghan, whatever! Do it. At this time when so much is threatening, when the government seems to want all LGBTQ folks and people living with HIV dead, being your authentic self is an act of rebellion.
