February 3, 2008 8:09 AM

All Right, so I Can't Sing..

 

 

The back porch steps were finished yesterday, by surprise. (It's always nice when a sub-contractor shows up ahead of time, on a weekend.) A little paint and a little polish to go..

Nearly full house last night for Revolutionary Evenings. I've long known that we needed to add more vocal music to our colonial program, for a number of reasons: 1) it's historic, 2) a lyric line adds a humanity to the music you don't get with purely instrumental numbers, no matter how beautifully they're rendered and 3) it gives the audience something to do (sing along) on the chorus. We have some great singers in our program--David Thomas, Ron Conrad, Angela Shaddix--and I guess I should just let them sing because I went around yesterday and asked the staff to be honest with me and tell me if I could sing or not. (Background: I know I can't really sing; I just want to know if I'm throwing people off.) David Thomas: "you're fine, just be more bold." My wife: "Sounds good to me." Kathy von Arx: "fine." Freeman House: "yeah, you're off. It's not so much pitch; it just sounds like you don't know what melody you want to sing."

Ouch.

<Sound of large, wounded soul hitting the wooden floor.>

A wise son loves reproof. A wise son loves reproof. A wise son loves reproof.

I've noticed that most people accept this epiphany with a kind of monastic serenity. They almost claim they can't sing with a boastfulness that announces, in effect, "life is very complicated, and there are many foggy, rock-strewn pathways to choose between, but this path is very clear." (Ironically, many people who can sing, who sound great when they try, think they can't sing, but this is not my problem apparently.) Here's the dilemma: I'm just like my dad. I love singing. I love singing more than a plate full of crisp brown tuna melt sandwiches and an ice chest full of root beer. If I were born Bavarian, I'd be the last one out of the hall, waving my stein back and forth, as they pushed me through the door.

My dad, Ray Riley, had a best friend all through school whose name was Riley Goodfellow. (They were 2nd cousins.) Dad tells the story of a music teacher in high school who was teaching a chorus and then suddenly announced, "Stop. Hold on. Ray Riley. Riley Goodfellow. You two. Why don't you sit down and do some homework for this number."

Dad said he knew from that moment on he was not a singer.

But here's the thing: dad sang all the time. In some ways, my love for music comes from him, because he sang little ditties all over the house, on vacation, driving to work, out on the golf course. He wasn't Perry Como, but it wasn't exactly painful either; in fact, he had a gift for making you want to sing along, and although he sometimes woefully remembered his high school music teacher's commentary, it only stopped him for a few minutes, and then he was launching right into "McNamara's Band."

So I suppose I shouldn't be discouraged about not knowing how to sing. Look at Madonna. She's made a fortune out of not knowing how to sing.

So Watch out.

I'm joining the joyful noise brigade.

 

More of the Farm Journal -- February 2, 2008