Being Brilliant

There are so many brilliant singers out there, and there are so many ways to be brilliant. A singer can be technically amazing, or stunningly inventive. A singer can be disarmingly believable, or a skilled interpreter. Or fearless. Or spontaneous. Or gorgeous, or popular, or energetic, or charming. They might also write, or dance, or ooze soul and personality. Or, dare I say it, all of the above.

But the most brilliant thing a singer can be - ANY singer - is their own self. It could be argued that it's also the most difficult and the most scary thing a singer can be. It may be ephemeral, and it's tough to pin down sometimes - it can't be described well, and it can't really be taught very well - but we know it when we see it and hear it.

We all have our personal lists of favourite vocalists - many of them household names, and perhaps some less known but nevertheless we find they move us as well.

I'd like to share with you the stories of a few unsung singers that I have found unforgettable. All any of them did was sing from their heart. Most of them I encountered a decade or more ago.

Airplane Boy:

I was on a flight from Newark to Detroit, and this little man who couldn't have been more than three-and-a-half years old stood up in his seat directly in front of me, turned around, and treated his fellow passengers to a word-perfect (and remarkably in-tune) rendition of Jimmy Buffett's Margharitaville. Aside from the airplane noise, you could have heard a pin drop in the place, until he got to the end. When he sang the part about "some people claim that there's a woman to blame, but I know it's my own damn fault" we all broke out in giggles, presumably at the incongruity of hearing a line like that sung from the mouth such an angel-faced cherub. At his audience's reaction, he figured we must have really liked it, so he immediately did it again, and then periodically a few more times before Detroit. If that flight had been continuing on, I'm sure I would have stayed put, not caring where the flight might have ultimately led me.

Ms. Help The Homeless:

In Boston there was this homeless woman who hung out a lot on Boylston Street. I'd call her a bag lady, except I'm not sure she even had a bag to her name. Not a person in the sort of situation where most of us would think she had a lot to sing about. But when she wasn't having a salty conversation with a person only she could see, she sang. She had her own personal theme song, and those of us who lived in the neighbourhood all had it memorized. She'd walk straight down her sidewalk singing it, head up, Dunkin' Donuts cup outstretched. I say her sidewalk because she wouldn't change her path for anybody - you had to move for her. The lyrics went "Help the homeless, Have a good day, Put in your money and be on your way". And she'd repeat it over and over. Thing is, if you listened long enough you were rewarded. Every fifth or sixth time through, she'd change the last line to "Put in your money go home and get laid" and then give this goofy little chortle.

Little Recorder Man:

I never saw him stand up, but I say little because I think he may have been one of the taller varieties of "Little People". Or maybe he was just plain short. Or maybe I'm just plain tall. Anyways, he played recorder in the Government Center subway station in Boston. And at Christmastime he always played The Twelve Days of Christmas. Uh-huh, all twelve verses. Yep, on the recorder. And he played pretty well too, but one might think that a solo instrumental version of that song isn't necessarily what your typical commuter might want to hear after putting in their 8 hours. If you're wondering how he got into a blog post about singing, it's because in his mind and heart, he really was singing. Every time he got to "seven swans a-swimming" you'd hear "doo-doot" where the word "seven" went. Strangely, instead of tuning him out, in my head I would end up counting down what my true love gave to me right along with him, waiting for that all-important "doo-doot" and it was always right on time, so he had to be singing inside. And you could tell the people who were listening by the grins and nods of recognition.

Ms. Break On Through:

In the early nineties I attended a week-long music camp for jazz singers just outside of Chicago. A big part of it dealt with scat singing. There were people who had some prior experience with vocal improvisation, and there were some who had never tried it. And there were some who had never tried it, and who were deathly afraid to, like Ms. Break On Through. So the last night of the camp we all had to perform in a concert. And it was open to the public, and there was a pretty good turnout too. And they hired a killin' rhythm section to back us all - they would have caught a singer from no matter how high he or she fell. So Ms. Break On Through sang the first part of her song, and when she got to the part where she was to improvise, she just froze. The music kept going, but she was like a deer in the headlights. And a few kind souls started egging her on and "Go Girl"ing her, but most of us held our breath until she finally opened her mouth again. And when she finally did it was loud and clear and with all the gumption she could muster. It was a big, giant "WOOF". We were all stunned, and simultaneously laughing and crying for her inside. But then she kept going, and going, and she did it. And it was such a privilege to watch her draw down her fear and kick out her blocks, live and in person.

Evening Shift Janitor:

It was after some sort of gig, and I don't remember what the occasion was. But I was alone, finishing packing up the gear in the special events space at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh, while the other person on the gig (my husband Tim) went to get the car and double-park it in front of the building. I don't think he knew I was there - there was one of those removable banquet walls between us. He inspired me to write a poem, called Spying On God, which I'll paste in below, because I don't think I can describe him to you any better:

I saw God last night
Or at least I heard Him
I just know it

He came in after everyone else had left
The food was eaten
The music was over
Running water
Fixing up
Looking after the rest of us
As usual

He must not have known I was still there
On the other side of the banquet wall
Still packing up
(Forever packing up)
Even though they say He knows it all
Because He was singing
In the sweetest falsetto
And could He sing!
"All I need is Jesus
He will take care of me
Aaaaaall I neeeeee is Jeeeeesuuuus
Heeee will taaake care
He wiiiill take caaaare of meeeee"
So I stayed as long as I could
That Man could sing

And it felt like it was just for me
And I learned not to take God
So literally

I will probably never know these people's names, and I probably won't see them again. But they moved me, and they are etched on my heart forever. I can only hope they are still singing.

Elise

(As if this second post wasn't long enough - this probably won't happen every day folks! - here are a few more singers being brilliant at being themselves, and making the best possible use of air. Three beautiful hearts.)