I have a problem.
Okay, so that might be the biggest understatement of the year. I, in fact, have multiple problems…like my obsession with hair flowers…or my personal vendetta against Saran Wrap…or my consumption of what might be considered to be disturbing amounts of tea….
Yes. I’ve got issues. I’m pretty sure everyone is aware of that by now. I’ve made peace with it. I really have. I used to look in the mirror and think, “Wow…that girl is a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case. Like, I mean, a whole stinkin’ case of baskets.”
The world of motivational posters and mid-afternoon Public Service Announcements gave me messages like, “Believe in yourself,” or some other nonsense that was supposed to make me actually think that I was not, in fact, a whole case of baskets. But they didn’t work. I never had one of those moments where I looked in the mirror and said, “Wow…that girl is awesome because she’s no longer a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case.” I’ve never been able to really believe in myself, and I’m okay with that, because I do believe in God. And I figure that God made me to be a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale basket case, and He probably made me this way for a reason. So now, I look in the mirror and still see the same person, only I kinda think she’s neato-mosquito, because God did (and is still doing) a good job with her.
I also use phrases like “neato-mosquito,” which is also problem, but it’s not the problem I want to discuss at this particular moment in time.
The problem I have has plagued me for most of my adolescence and all of my adult life. I’ve been singing in church choirs and such since I was probably about three years old, but it wasn’t until I got to high school that I realized I had a problem. Now, while I love to sing and often randomly burst into song in public…and in private…and pretty much all the time, the love of singing isn’t the problem. Not at all. People seem to like hearing me sing (I'm convinced that God gave me a decent singing voice because my constant singing would be even more annoying if I couldn't carry a tune), even when I’m singing at what others might consider to be inappropriate times (What? You don’t sing while you’re doing laundry?). But…well…okay, so here it is.
Since I passed puberty and got my big girl singing voice, there has come a time in every choral or vocal experience when I’ve had “The Talk.” “The Talk” always goes something like this:
Musical Person of Some Sort (or MPOSS—that sounds like a really cool rapper name, but I’m getting off track): Hey, Ruth, could you come here?
Me: (nervously…because I feel like I’m being called to the musical equivalent of the principal’s office) Um…okay.
MPOSS: I wanted to talk to you about your singing. First off, you have a beautiful voice.
Me: Thanks you.
MPOSS: But…
Me: *GULP* (Here it comes…)
MPOSS: About your vibrato…
Me: *SIGH* (Oh noes! Not again!)
MPOSS: It doesn’t always suit the style of song we’re singing.
Me: I know, I know, I….
MPOSS: And there’s been some concern that your outrageous vibrato is causing earthquakes in Siberia.
Me: Harsh.
MPOSS: I realize you were probably trained to sing that way in voice lessons, but….
Me: I never had voice lessons.
MPOSS: (Pause) Oh. Then you just like the way it sounds??
Me: No. Look, I’m not TRYING to sing with vibrato. I’m really, really not.
MPOSS: (Another pause) Really? Well, I guess that’s a relief. I thought you were doing it on purpose. I thought maybe you were trying to take “Blessed Be Your Name” to a-whole-nother level or something.
Me: No, no. It’s just the way I sing.
MPOSS: Well, can you sing...a little differently? Without the vibrato?
Me: I’ll try, but…I can’t make any promises. I can’t seem to control the vibrato.
MPOSS: You can’t?
Me: I guess you could say that the vibrato controls me.
MPOSS: (Yet another pause) Well, keep trying. Last week one of the deacon’s glasses lenses shattered during the offertory, right when you hit a wavering high note.
(Just for the record, it’s really not possible for glass to shatter just because someone sings a wavering high note. They proved it to be impossible on Myth Busters. Now you know.)
I’ve had more than one of these conversations. I’ve also gotten random comments on my vibrato, ranging from, “Not so much vibrato, Ruth” to “Gee, Ruth, everything isn’t an opera.” I can’t help it. Ever since I got my big girl singing voice, I’ve had a big fat trembling vibrato that’s gone with it, astounding and perplexing spectators and fellow musicians, alike.
A few years ago, I was playing a game called “Karaoke Revolution” with some friends. The point of the game is to match pitch on all the notes at all the right times. I confused the video game because it didn’t know how to process a vibrato of my caliber. And I lost.
I lost hard.
Stupid vibrato! Why must you torment me?!? Why are you an ever-present thorn in my side…or in my vocal chords???
My friends were right. Everything is not an opera. Unless I sing it. Because with all my years of singing, there are only two vocal styles I have mastered. The first, of course, is opera. Which is pretty much only useful if I’m pretending to be Christine Daae…which actually happens more than one might think…
The other vocal style I’ve mastered? Well…I can’t bust out any contemporary styles, but give me a guitar, and I can break away from the opera curse for a while. I can strum that guitar and start singing stuff that would make the Partridge Family jealous. I can sing like a hippy, yo. A bad hippy, of course, but a hippy none-the-less. I’m sure the vibrato is still there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to come out, but I think it sulks and remains dormant for a while because it is offended by my horrendous guitar playing. Also, I kind of think it gets annoyed when I sing about sunshine, flowers, puppy dogs, and rainbows.
So, there you have it.
I’m an operatic hippy.
In fact, I’m a frizzy-haired, freakishly pale, operatic hippy.
And also a whole case of baskets.
And I still think God did a pretty good job.
Neato-mosquito.
And, oh, what the hey…
Awesome possum, too.
