who needs talent to sing?
/I can’t sing.
Sure, I can open my mouth and belt out a few tuneless lines, but I always assumed singing meant more than a chaotic shrieking with no resemblance to the song Alexa is blasting on the speaker.
At least, I assumed.
To explore this topic, let’s look up the definition of singing, shall we? Oxford says, “making musical sounds with the voice.” Merriam-Webster adds, “to utter with musical inflections.” Musical, meantime, is defined as “having a pleasant sound.”
Quite restrictive, I might argue, with little room for personal interpretation.
And Merriam-Webster also uses the definition “to celebrate in verse.” But I’ve heard no champagne pop, no hands clap, when I do my Lady Gaga impression at home along with “Born This Way.” Unfair, because I WAS born this way -- no ear, no pitch -- and maintain compassionate exception should be given to me and all the other off-key crooners.
Even those rare times I do open my mouth, my Alexa often goes kaput.
As a loud child, before the world had its way with me, I had the guts to sing in my outside voice in school assembles with songs like “My Favorite Things,” from The Sound of Music, and “Wouldn’t it be Loverly,” from My Fair Lady. I sang so full-throttled, so exuberantly, obviously so unaware in my Julie Andrews wannabe fan euphoria that my teacher -- my 3rd grade flesh-and-blood Alexa with her eyes bugged out and a finger over pursed lips -- asked me to “turn down the volume.”
I was so horrified, so embarrassed, I’ve barely sung in public again. Ever. Yet I know the words to songs. Lots of songs. Cosmic mismatch? Cue the violins.
Not everyone is so scarred. At a recent dinner party, another individualist -- also born this way -- opened her voice to piano accompaniment. And this was a voice, not a “favorite thing” voice or a “wouldn’t it be loverly” voice. There would be no question the human ability to fully stretch every inch of vocal cord was in process.
She plain old wailed.
And clearly loved every exuberant moment of it.
So did I. She didn’t hurt my ears. She opened my eyes.
Her sheer enjoyment of letting her voice go -- her body shook, her silver hair stood on end, the glasses in the cabinets rattled, the lights flickered -- helped us all have a rollicking moment letting our voices out. And we all know that means more than just singing.
Obviously, this other wayward diva hadn’t gotten the same childhood message I did. Instead of “turn down the volume,” she must have heard, “Sweet darlin,’ you let the whole darn world know you’re alive, and you spread your brand of joy far and wide. Don’t pay any attention to what other folks think.”
She never said she was auditioning for Broadway. She was singing for the fun of it.
Was that allowed?
A little more research later, I learn singing officially improves mental and physical health EVEN IF you’re not good at it? Why isn’t that EVEN IF in the dictionary?
Singing reduces stress, boosts immunity, increases lung function, helps manage grief, may improve snoring, and most marvelously, revs up a sense of belonging and connection with those wailing right along with you.
But you singers already know this.
The next day, sitting at the firepit with my friend Noelle -- who has a nice voice and is finally trying karaoke -- I did the unthinkable. I used my outside voice not on the inside, but the outside, with Alexa in the background for however long she could take it before suddenly shutting down.
Usually, I would feed my friend the words and then take a lonely backseat.
Not this time. I spread my arms wide, like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, and I howled.
Be forewarned. Spring is in the air. Tone deaf or not -- time for a rollicking rendition of “Here Comes the Sun?”