Don't Play That Song
I love music, but I’m a truly terrible singer. Think “Murphy Brown” pilot. I can’t even sing ironically and have it sound somewhat decent. Not for lack of trying, though. I’ve attempted many a night of drunk karaoke-ing (in private Koreatown rooms, mind you) and the results were pretty horrific by any standard.
Come to think of it, the way I befriended my suitemate in college was by bonding over the laughingly horrendous nature of my singing voice. A few weeks into the first quarter of our freshman year, she came into my room mid-song and said, “so you’re the one who I keep hearing singing The Cranberries.” Yes, I liked them. And yes, I sang along to them with an Irish inflection like Dolores O'Riordan. And yes, I was, and still am, a huge nerd.
My most recent and probably last attempt at semi-public humiliation was belting out Faith No More’s “Epic” whilst playing Rock Band (!!!) with a few of my closest friends. Now, all you really have to do for that song is shout out some god-awful lyrics and nasally humor yourself through the chorus...but I still gave up three lines into the ordeal out of sheer embarrassment and fear of banishment from the inner circle. Short of being the flopping fish out of water at the end of the video, I say pass the guitar and/or drumsticks. Christ, what a sad predicament.
Nevertheless, the one genre of music (notwithstanding Nina Simone and Patsy Cline) that makes me rightfully despise the suckdome of my voice like no other, is Motown. Some of those songs are just too good to be universally legal. I marvel at Aretha Franklin’s “Don’t Play That Song” on a daily basis while bawling internally because I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be able to express myself in that manner. The Shirelles’ “Baby, It’s You” and James Brown’s “Try Me” have the same effect. Trust me when I tell you the list goes on and on...and on.
Some of those songs will actually move me to tears and sometimes I will actually close my eyes while singing along; Will Freeman would not approve. Still, I’ve come to the realization that in the grand effort of saving the world from my reign of vocal terror, I must officially resign myself to singing strictly in the privacy of my own home. Guess it’s a really good thing I live alone.
Come to think of it, the way I befriended my suitemate in college was by bonding over the laughingly horrendous nature of my singing voice. A few weeks into the first quarter of our freshman year, she came into my room mid-song and said, “so you’re the one who I keep hearing singing The Cranberries.” Yes, I liked them. And yes, I sang along to them with an Irish inflection like Dolores O'Riordan. And yes, I was, and still am, a huge nerd.
My most recent and probably last attempt at semi-public humiliation was belting out Faith No More’s “Epic” whilst playing Rock Band (!!!) with a few of my closest friends. Now, all you really have to do for that song is shout out some god-awful lyrics and nasally humor yourself through the chorus...but I still gave up three lines into the ordeal out of sheer embarrassment and fear of banishment from the inner circle. Short of being the flopping fish out of water at the end of the video, I say pass the guitar and/or drumsticks. Christ, what a sad predicament.
Nevertheless, the one genre of music (notwithstanding Nina Simone and Patsy Cline) that makes me rightfully despise the suckdome of my voice like no other, is Motown. Some of those songs are just too good to be universally legal. I marvel at Aretha Franklin’s “Don’t Play That Song” on a daily basis while bawling internally because I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be able to express myself in that manner. The Shirelles’ “Baby, It’s You” and James Brown’s “Try Me” have the same effect. Trust me when I tell you the list goes on and on...and on.
Some of those songs will actually move me to tears and sometimes I will actually close my eyes while singing along; Will Freeman would not approve. Still, I’ve come to the realization that in the grand effort of saving the world from my reign of vocal terror, I must officially resign myself to singing strictly in the privacy of my own home. Guess it’s a really good thing I live alone.
posted by Eti at
6:29 PM
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