Music

Voice lessons at the New England Conservatory of Music. I was not allowed to sing in English. English is not a pure language. It doesn’t have pure vowel sounds. I sang in languages I didn’t know: Italian, German, French, Spanish. I learned the syllable sounds and sang them with great depth of feeling and sincerity. There was freedom in not being able to put meaning to the words. I could enjoy the feeling of the sounds bursting or sliding, the vibration in my chest, my posture, my mouth and tongue moving. Emphasis was placed on an expanded awareness of space within my mouth and throat, of openness. Sound was encouraged to enter into the space and not to sit flat on my tongue. Singing gave sound an added dimension of life.

Letters Home : Me (part 1) : the music
Capo fourth fret. Chord progression A-G-A-G-Em-D-A-G

I hold the guitar in my arms, against my body. It hangs easy from its blue strap across my back, over my left shoulder. I bought the guitar for fifty bucks from the WantAds thirty-eight years ago without a case. It has a sweet sound.

I like the spot on me, the hush that consumes. I’ve chosen my set, put the songs in performance order days before while I rehearsed. House lights dim. I step onto the platform, center stage. I turn, left to right, a slow smile and a nod, weighing the audience mood, their response to my hello. The spot’s bright. I can’t see their faces, but I can feel them.

It’s a three night show and I’m performing all three nights. Small theater in Chelsea, not far from the airport, couple of hundred people each time. Microphone readied for me, “Test, test,” the levels. I like to hear the acoustics of my voice amplified through a microphone. I like to hear my breath, the rush of soft consonants, the final closing of a word, ending a phrase. I like to pause, to extend that instant without sound, the anticipation, every muscle of my face, neck, abdomen, arms, legs tightened. The audience hovers with me, waiting to be led.

Night #1 the manager extended my set by an extra half-hour.

Night #2 the microphone stopped working.

I don’t need a microphone. I was trained to sing without one and the theater was warm. Sounds reflected easily, with depth and color. There was a heat, an awareness of ownership of space, tangible. I could feel it with my skin, the boundary dividing the performance area and the audience. I moved toward the people, pulled them closer.

I sang Gloomy Winter, “Gloomy winter’s noo awa’/Soft the westlin breezes blaw/’Mong the birks o’ Stanley shaw/The mavis sings fu’ cheerie-o…” Capo fifth fret, minor chords, a shift to major for the chorus. I sang with clarity, could feel the passing of winter to spring, brought within the darkened room the length of trees and the hush of the woods. Everyone was still. I know what I do well.

Celtic songs exist outside of time. I’m not interested in reels so much as the frozen moments–pain, passion, love, loss, leaving, alone. My mother says she can tell when it’s a Scottish song I’m singing, “It sounds like a dirge. Can’t you play something happier?” But I can’t. I play music so I can feel. I play music and remember how to cry.

I am in the spotlight. My left hand curls around the slim, wood neck. The floor and walls are black. All eyes on me. Right hand above the sound hole, left hand fingers in the frets, pressed onto the metal. I breathe in, touch the strings.

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Gloomy Winter – lyrics

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Your Warm Body – lyrics

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