I was really sorry to hear about your recent passing. I’ve never really told anyone this, but I wish I could sing like you. Well, not exactly like you. I wish I could sound like me, but have your musical soul and raw talent. You are awesome.
This is the thing I don’t get. How can I have such an overwhelming urge to sing “Chain of Fools” or “Ain’t No Way” from the very depth of my being and sound like a horrible, dying ferret? It’s just not fair. I have a song to sing. I have a tune in my heart. I have a melody to share. And they all suck… really bad.
I tried voice lessons once, but my voice teacher had to get on Zoloft just to push through our one hour lessons which eventually managed to propell her into the life-altering decision to move to New Zealand and take up knitting. I thought about trying to hone my skills at the all-ages Karaoke night, but my rendition of “Come Sail Away” by Styx was met by some kid pulling me off the stage mumbling something about thanking him later, and how much had I actually had to drink. To drink? Does a Roy Rogers count?
Then I thought I might try my hand at elaborate lip synching and a little choreography at the talent show at my school which was raising money for our sister village in Kenya. We visit with this school through a webcam and they show us dances and songs and what they know. They seem genuinely happy, and a lot less self-conscious in general. When I look around my class, we all seem so guarded and reluctant to let loose a little. Nobody wants to make a fool of herself.
But, like I said, I have a song to sing. The lip synching at the talent show just didn’t satisfy my urge to express myself even though a lot of it came through a elaborate get up I made out of a second-hand costume at Goodwill. It involved feathers, sequins, satin and, well, some stuff that I had never really seen or touched before. I don’t think I used any actual dead animals in the making of my costume, but I sure looked like a cross between a peacock and a really happy bear. I had seen Priscilla Queen of the Desert and noticed that you don’t really have to know how to sing, but you have know how to perform. Problem was, I couldn’t really fill out the whole “look” if you know what I mean.
Why do I have this passion for singing when I have no actual talent for it? Why can’t I just be happy singing for myself in the shower, in the car, when I’m pulling weeds? I have a pretty good ability in poetry and drawing comics which other people don’t have. But I still want that one great song. I want my own anthem. I want to hit every note and give myself chills with the heartfelt power a single, sublime verse can deliver.
But then I think about singers who have sort of passed their vocal prime and yet they can totally make me cry. Last week my friend’s Dad was playing this song in the car by Johnny Cash called “For You” and, well, I lost it. His voice was scratchy and old and wobbly, but my heart just exploded when I heard the song. I cried and cried.
So maybe I don’t need a perfect voice, a solid vibrato, or an operatic range. Maybe I just sing my song. Even if it’s only for me, alone and with some heart… and maybe a boa.
Always,
Capra
Leave a comment