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.
Merriam-Webster also uses the definition “to celebrate in verse.” But I’ve heard no champagne pop, no hands clap, when I sing along with Lady Gaga to “Born This Way.” Unfair, because I was born this way—no ear, no pitch—and I 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 assemblies with songs like “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music, and “Wouldn’t it be Loverly” from My Fair Lady. I sang full-throttle, fearless, so exuberantly, so unaware in my Julie Andrews fan euphoria, that my teacher—with her eyes bugged out and a finger over pursed lips—suggested that I should, “Turn down the volume.”
I was so horrified, so embarrassed, I’ve rarely 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 mouth to piano accompaniment. And this was definitely a voice of note that couldn’t keep a note, not a “favorite thing” or a “loverly” voice. There was no question the human ability to fully stretch every inch of vocal cord was in progress.
She plain old wailed.
And clearly loved every thunderous moment of it.
So did I. She didn’t hurt my ears. She opened my eyes.
Her body shook, her curly hair stood on end, the glasses in the cabinets rattled, the lights flickered. Her sheer enjoyment helped us all have a rollicking moment letting our voices out. And we all know that means more than just singing.
Obviously, this 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 bit of research later, I learned singing 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 my firepit with a few friends and classic rock in the background, I did the unthinkable. I used my outside voice—not on the inside like when I’m alone with Alexa—but on the outside.
Usually, I would feed people the words then take a lonely backseat. Not this time.
I spread my arms wide like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, and I howled. Tone deaf or not, I moved from “Born This Way” to “Born to Be Wild.”
Be forewarned.