Born Not to Sing

I am a sucker for the talent shows on television.  By this, I mean American Idol, The Sing Off, and The Voice.   Despite its name, I do not count America’s Got Talent among them; for my money that show is more aptly titled “Stupid People Tricks”.  The Sing Off is a particular treat.  I am a big fan of a capella performances, although I question whether the show can live up to its promise of making any such ensemble into a superstar pop group.

American Idol, and its new competitor, The Voice, are the true talent makers.  I pride myself in having designated several of the American Idol winners from their first auditions.  (Fantasia’s National Anthem is still the best performance I have heard her give; Carrie Underwood was in a class by herself even fresh off the farm.)  Last year, I gave American Idol one last chance.  I grew weary when the show became too much about Simon and not enough about the singers.  His insistence that “it’s all about song choice” and “that was just self-indulgent drivel” was mean spirited without being instructive.  With the return of Nigel Lithgoe as producer, a few kinder, gentler judges, and high quality industry coaches, the show now emphasizes the growth and nurturing of talents.  It is now okay for a contestant to remaining in their indigenous musical genre.  And as flies on the wall, we in the audience now have a better understanding of how hard it is to become a star. 

With an unusual twist, The Voice bypasses the quest for the “whole package” and chooses talent blindly.  Last year, a contestant who could lay down a good performance found himself or herself suddenly paired with the likes of Cee Lo Green or Christina Aguilera.  Now that we understand that the show is a really a competition among the coaches, the stars have tacitly changed the parameters, holding out for the most unusual, never-before-heard voice qualities.  Great mainstream singers are finding themselves going home empty handed, while those with raspy voices resembling Adele or Rod Stewart are hitting pay dirt.

I could not be more jealous. 

By many yardsticks, I am a fairly accomplished musician.  I have played on a solo stage, performed concertos with large symphony orchestras, done chamber music at intimate soirees.  I have played as a member of several symphony orchestras, both as a violinist and a pianist, also doubling on celesta, xylophone, and even the gong.  I have taken lessons in conducting—even waved my hands at an orchestra from a podium twice.  There is one thing I cannot do: sing.  It is not for lack of trying.  I can almost carry a tune, I have a reasonable sense of pitch, and I have a broad range.  Unfortunately, I was born with one of the least melodious voices known to man.

I cannot imagine anything more glorious than singing with a beautiful voice, conjuring music from deep inside of you.   In truth, my devotion to piano playing comes in part from my inability to sing.  I have adapted to my instrument much like one does to a prosthetic leg:  a mental leap that treats the physical object as an extension of your body.   In a sense, I have learned to sing with my hands.

Fortunately, the mind is powerful enough to compensate in other ways as well.  For example, when I sing at the top of my lungs in the car, my brain translates this into something perceived (only by me)as beauty, allowing me to tolerate myself without jumping in horror from the speeding vehicle.    It also renders me musically dumb and mute around others, a failsafe mechanism that prevents me from singing in the presence of humans, particularly the most vulnerable—such as pregnant women and small children.  I must take special precautions at certain times of year, especially around Passover, when a hearty rendition of Dayenu is likely to cause me to lose control and chug Elijah’s cup.   Then there is the infamous Disneyworld incident; apparently, breaking into song like a cartoon princess is frowned upon by that establishment.

So I sit, week after week, scrutinizing the contestants on TV and handicapping my contestant list.  As The Voice ratchets down its teams toward the finals, I will be calling the action from the sidelines.   Before the next America Idol is crowned, I will have dialed the most talented singer’s personal phone number a hundred times.  I will not call for a country singer, but rather for someone who knows how to style a melody in a soulful and jazzy way.  And when the winner I've predicted is announced, I will have tears in my eyes—in part for the excitement of one whose life is about to change forever, but also for the voice that I will never have.

Tomorrow's blog:  What's Pasta is Prologue