vox humana

the singing began in Tuscon, leaning over an Andrews Sisters 78 rpm of 'Shrimp Boats Are A Comin'. i am mesmerized. i gaze at the round-n-round trying to sing along in a boy-as-chipmonk squeak. it was not until entering middle school at the Episcopal Academy that i 'got' the transcendental side of singing. Curtis R. York (C.R.Y.) was our music teacher, chorus/glee club conductor and choir master. i was 11. my voice had that pure, no vibrato soprano that we were led to believe was ok (not girly). Mr York, after all, coached baseball. we auditioned (200 cherubs) with dime-sized mouths and tiny lifted chins. if we did well we made choir. we sight read, without knowing the notes. the dots went up and down. it wasn't that hard. if we were 'gifted' we earned a solo spot in that swath of boys at the annual concert. the sensation of 200 voices, rising from rib cages strong and clear and into the gymnasium air, was my true introduction to music, physical, emotional and spiritual. i remember wanting to sit next to whomever was my pre-homo 'best friend' at the time. i'm pretty sure that all that singing was a major part of what got me into Yale where there is a huge singing tradition. glee, choir and all those gentlemen songsters led triumphantly up the Whiffenpoof Alps (seniors only) who in tight ('tight') formation cast their anachronistic spell. the arrangements, some by Cole Porter (a grad), were stunning, complex and irresistible. i wasn't sure how i fit in with those guys socially. most of them were high powered preppies and had that haughty, upper class thing down to a white shoe T. i was locked in the closet and terrified. still, the music was worth the discomfort. i loved being surrounded by that thick vocal blend. we drank and sang, wore white tie and tails and tilted slightly forward off-heel as if to put a careful nose on the perfect note. down the road, when i began to write my own songs, i hit a wall, a vocal wall. i brayed and squawked and fought to hear a voice that fit in with pop or rock, but what i heard bouncing back from the studio monitors sounded like an operatic Whiffenpoof, or worse, a Broadway chorus boy nasal tenor. i was appalled. i went to great lengths to make it sound 'rock right', ultimately damaging my vocal chords and necessitating 2 polyp operations. the first E.N.T. doc warned that a) i would never sing again or b) would sound like Doris 'Que Sera Sera' Day (which, when i think about it, might not have been such a bad idea). i got myself a second opinion, had the things scraped off and resumed my band obsession. when my boyfriend at the time joined up, possessing a voice closer to Paul Rogers than Ethel Merman, i was asking for it. 'why doesn't HE sing all the songs? his voice is WAY more commercial', my band mates whined. 'we're treading industry water here with your weird voice'. there was even a vote to throw me out of my own band and have the now X-boyfriend do all the singing. it wasn't until i got back to playing my songs on the piano and using my whatever-it-sounded-like voice honestly and not trying to parody some asshole rock slut, that i came into my own. singers can be the most neurotic of performers. on a loud stage they can't even hear themselves think. to lose your voice in that environment is a nightmare. it's all you have. you can't turn it up to 10. what to do? NO MORE BANDS. as a solo dude i finally sound like me. i love it all over again as if, chin tilted upward, i'm in that miraculous innocent winged orbit of the boy soprano, eyes crossed, floating towards the stars.