Through a lens, darkly

We all have an official history of ourselves, kind of a snapshot version of who we are and how we came to be that way. I have now had cause to actually examine my "story." A friend and colleague of mine has roped me into a project that is essentially a musical "This Is Your Life" (Sunday, September 17, 4 p.m. St. Philip Presbyterian Church, y'all come!). In order to do that, one must presumably spend some time inside of one's head to nail down the flotsam and jetsam of one's formative past.

One of the prep questions I was asked was, "What has been the development of your identity as a singer? (When did it emerge? How has it changed over time?)" To which I replied (warning: long navel gazing ahead):

Hmmm. The funny thing is that I never really thought of myself as a singer, or planned to make it my life's work. If I thought of myself as a musician at all, it was as a pianist. Mostly, I wanted to be a doctor-- a neurosurgeon to be precise. But as I think about it, I have always been a singer of one sort or another. From children's choir, to school choir, to community youth choir, on thru college, and lots of singing around the house to boot.

In fact, one of my favorite books as a child was a book (I guess now we'd call it a graphic novel or such) titled "Melisande," about a homeless dog who becomes a famous opera singer. No words, just pictures and a "Foreword."

I've always said that no one really paid attention to me until college, but again, maybe not so true upon reflection. When I was 8 or 9 or so, my crazy (in a good, sane way) actress Aunt Edythe corralled me into making an audition tape for something or other that was being cast. She never told me what it was for and now she says she only remembers me doing it, but not what for. She had me sing Cole Porter's "Don't Fence Me In." My first official audition piece. We recorded it in my living room on one of those (rad for the time) portable cassette players.

In 5th grade I made my stage debut at City Honors School in Finian's Rainbow in the childrens chorus. I still love all of those songs from that show: "Necessity," "How are things in Glocca Mora," "Look to the Rainbow" and "Old Devil Moon." I almost did Music Man, but something happened-- don't remember what. Then, the summer after my freshman year in high school, I was supposed to be Marsinah in a production of Kismet for BuffaloArts & Music. Allegedly the funding fell through, but we had gotten pretty far in the rehearsal process. LOVE that show...

I did a couple random local scholarship competitions at the urging of my voice teacher. He thought I might be a mezzo (first aria: Faites-lui mes aveurs, from Faust), but gave me a lot of what I now know to be soprano rep (My Man's Gone Now, from Porgy and Bess). We also did a few standards, the one that comes to mind is "Come rain or come shine."

I actually got drafted into music in college. Davidson had a Freshman Talent Show every year, presumably to give the upperclassmen a good laugh. The custom was for the residents of each hall to do a joint act. The counselor for my hall, 3rd Richardson, came up with the lovely idea of taking the mattress covers, tucking them into our jeans- belted at the knees- and singing some song or another as dancing teeth. I was having none of that, thank you very much! At which point said counselor says the only way I'm avoiding "dental duty" is by singing alone. I am horrified. Me? Sing in front of these people I don't know? Sing what? My roommate tells the gathering that she hears me singing all of the time-- both in the room and through the open window when she is outside our dorm. My choices were stupid teeth or scary solo.

I hadn't brought any music with me (pre-med, what did I need with it?), so I had to sing a capella. The one thing I remembered from studying in high school. The aforementioned "My Man's Gone Now," aka, big, hairy, complicated aria without the very integral accompaniment. Just me, on an empty stage, in an auditorium filled with people. When I finished, there was complete silence. I thought, "I knew this was going to be a bad idea," just before the audience
erupted into loud, raucous applause. Subsequent arm-twisting into choir and voice lessons made me think, "Well, maybe I really am a singer..."

Since then it's been kind of a slow process. I think it's just been in the last year or two that I can say declaratively, "I am a singer," and not be fighting the urge to qualify that statment in any way. Like, "...but only part time." Or "... well, sort of. Really I'm a desk jockey but I sing on the side." I've known for sure that this is what I want my life to be about for several years.

Shortly after grad school, before it became apparent that fame and fortune were not in my immediate path, I was still holding on to the idealized "perfect" opera career. Start with an apprentice/young artist program, get discovered, international career. Later, as I began to do more and more gigs around town, I thought, well, this is good, but surely there's more for me. Eventually, I was reminded of the adage, "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." I thought, why are you trying to define "career" in terms of other peoples' lives and definitions of success? The bottom line was that I was successfully making a living as a musician.

Realizing that was what led me to cut the cord and go full-time as a musician two years ago. Even with the praise and encouragement of my mentors, colleagues and "fans," I still struggle to accept the fact that I'm pretty danged good and it's just a matter of time before more people figure that out.