Sing It!

The Ups and Downs… The Highs and Lows… The Wild, Wild Wilderness of It!

Singing gives us the power to express what feels too big, too small, too unsayable. To speak what cannot be spoken. To paint the dramatic inner landscapes of what we feel with the palette of our voice. To vocalize what is invisible.

Singing opens a window into ourselves, out of ourselves. It helps us release what has become too heavy to hold or too joyous to contain. It gives us a space to play– where our body feels grounded and our spirt can soar.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t always start out that way.

In second grade music class I was told I was tone deaf and asked to sing quietly, so as not to throw off the others. It was crushing because I loved to sing. And not quietly. As an alto, I was given the harmony part. As a child with ADHD I couldn’t focus on one part when I could hear three. So, I stopped singing.

But my inner voice would not let that be.

In my early thirties, an unorthodox therapist (my favorite kind), suggested I take singing lessons. He happened to know a vocal coach on the upper west side who worked largely with Broadway singers. An email introduction was made and a week later I was singing Broadway. Quietly.

He told me to ‘belt it out’.

Not to worry about pitch. We could figure that out later. The point was to breathe life into the song. My life. The song was like a vehicle and my experience was the fuel. I left that first day feeling fabulously alive, wildly invigorated. I stood taller as I walked out of his studio and then somewhere around 72^nd street, I burst into tears.

The power of what I had let out, released the trauma of what I had let in. I felt shaky and vulnerable but strangely relieved to discover that my deep fear of not being seen or heard or known for who I really am, was because I had been hiding.

That chronic tightness in my stomach and chest and throat was because I had something to say that could not be put into words. Lord knows I tried. I became a writer. A poet. I tried, still do, to say what cannot be said.

To translate the human experience.

In my forties I began writing lyrics. Lots of them. I had the good fortune of working closely with Michael Maxwell, founder of Pink Noise music house, for the commercials I was writing. I asked him to take a look and tell me his thoughts. He sent back a song.

I was blown away– first that he liked my lyrics enough to compose music and second that he was able to translate my lyrics into melody.

He told me to come in and we’d record it. I came in, thrilled to be included in the process. He had used all kinds of amazing singers for the audio tracks he’d composed so I wondered if maybe he’d convinced one of them to throw this in as a favor. I arrived. He gave me headphones, set up the mic and then asked if the height felt comfortable. For me? ME?

No, no, I said. Surely, he didn’t think I would be singing it.

He said, Who else? It’s your song.

And something in his assumptive tone, limited time frame and generosity in collaborating made me comply. I was scared. He was supportive. I felt stupid and unqualified. He held firm. My pitch was off. He pulled musical harmonies out so there was a singular path.

We did it. Together, we recorded my first song. We ended up making an entire album, From There to Here. That first song didn’t make the final cut, but it introduced me to a transformative kind of integration.

It gave me the opportunity to express the finely tuned textures of my written voice through the nuanced vocabulary of singing. Singing is exponentially more expressive than speaking. This sounds absurdly obvious but there is knowing and there is experiencing.

Like knowing children will change your life and then having them change your life.

The difference cannot be described.

A few years later I embarked on my second album, Spring Has Thrown A Rope, with recording musician, Marc Teamaker. Different energy. Different collaboration. Less understanding of my fears. More demanding of my potential. He set a higher bar. I rose as best as I could.

But I knew what I longed for was beyond tactics. What I wanted to communicate could not be broken down into volume or pitch or phrasing. I needed a new teacher. I put it out there. And a few weeks later Joe led me to Eric who said he’d reach out to his friend Marlon but wasn’t sure he’d be able to work with me.

His schedule was tight. He usually worked with opera singers and recording artists. He was teaching at Berklee College of Music and NYU. He had toured with Stevie Wonder, Lauryn Hill, Billy Joel, Sting, Michael Jackson… and was in the middle of recording his own hit single. But he said he’d be happy to speak with me.

I was terrified.

I can’t sing. Not really. Not like that. I was sure to be a disappointment. But I went. I took the train in and walked uptown to Nola Studios. I walked into a medium size room with a grand piano and Marlon.

He must have verbalized some kind of hello but what struck me was the pure joy of his smile, the open invitation of his face, the exuberant freedom of his energy. I didn’t know where we would go but I trusted him to take me there.

And boy did we travel. From a low G3 to high soprano Ab5. From getting lost in call and response improvisation to transitioning through my upper and lower registers to finding my voice after losing my mom. He invited my spirit in to play. And my voice found its voice. He taught me to sing from a different space. Each of his lessons became a meteoric metaphor for my life.

He taught me to ground my breath for my voice to soar.

We need an anchor, so we don’t lose ourselves in the current. We need to find our roots before we can grow wings. We need to feel the gravity of who we truly are so we can know why we want to fly. And where. And how. And with whom.

He taught me the trick to sing through my registers is to open my throat.

Expand when your instinct is to contract. Loosen when you want to tighten. It’s when we most want to hold that we need to let go. If we do it in song, maybe life will follow. Maybe it’s where our voice breaks that our soul breaks through.

He taught me to love my voice.

No, I am not a traditionally trained singer. But my voice is wonderfully, wildly unique. No, my pitch is not perfect (far from it!). But my voice is one-of-a kind. Yes, sometimes I project too much; sometimes, not enough. But the particular way I sing matters.

No one can sing the way I do. Or you.

Beyond singing and teaching, Marlon is a maverick of unity and joy.

Every month or so he hosts a free Singfest for all his clients. I have had the great joy of participating and it is the most glorious example of we are more than the sum of our parts! When we sing together, we give voice to our wild individuality and collective diversity in a completely unique way that provides community around who we are on the inside versus what we do on the outside.

It lifts our spirits.

It’s not about being pitch perfect. It’s actually about pitching the perfect! And having some fun. Getting out of our heads and into our hearts. Giving voice to all the ways we are feeling… together.  We are a global chorus of one.

So, let’s get together and sing. Marlon and I will be hosting a Singfest next Sunday April 26^th at 2:00PM EST. It is for anyone and everyone! Just email me at [email protected] if you are interested and we will send you an invite.

Sing it up. Sing it down. Sing it in. Sing it out. Sing it loud. Sing it soft.

Sing… into the wild, wild, wilderness of it!