Pipes

by Mark Webber

What does it feel like? To open your mouth and let fly a melody? To have an instrument in your throat? American Idol is on and I'm listening to ten pretty talented teens and twenty somethings doing something that turns me green with off-key envy.

In the fifth grade I sang for Talent Day. It was a pop ditty by Gary and the Playboys called Save Your Heart For Me.

Walk along the lane with someone new,
have yourself a summer fling, or two,
just remember I'm in love with you
so, save your heart for me.

When you're all alone
far away from home
someone's gonna flirt with you,
I don't think it's wrong
if you play along
just don't fall for someone new.

When the Autumn breeze begins to blow
and the summer time is on the go
you'll be in my heart again I know
so, save your heart for me,
darling save your heart for me.

I chose that song because it was on the first 45 I bought and knew it by heart, but mostly to impress Kathy Morris. By the time I was finished it was renamed, Save Your Ears and Run Like Hell! My teacher, struggling for something positive and kind to say said, "Thank you, Mark, that was very brave." Kathy Morris told me she had homework for the rest of the year.

It's amazing to me what goes on in the larynx that gives one the gift of song and another the ability to peel wallpaper. After years of staring at numerous throats during conversations, I can say with certainty that there's nothing on a person's exterior physique that says "Can Sing". I can also say with certainty that people get creeped out when the speakee spends his listening time during said conversation staring at the throat of the speaker. Try explaining a throat fetish to Officer Bob.

And there's no clue from the way people speak, either. I hear people talking with voices that sound like sandpaper rubbing moldy brass, then turn around and sing like Tony Bennett. Come to think of it, Mr. Bennett sounds sort of raspy and hoarse when he talks, then he sings and POW! And I've found the converse to be true, as well; melodious, lilting speakers decalcifying spines once the music starts. O, magnum mysterium.

Basically, I just want what genetics failed to serve up: voce fidelis maximus singaloticus. But, since it isn't going to happen, how do I compensate? Isn't that how it's done? We give ourselves something in return? Middle-aged men trying to come to terms with their (our) newly discovered mortality usually turn to the hot car, aka Penis Mobile, or a little dollop of sump'n, sump'n on the side. Or both. I don't want a hot rod or a new chick (hmm, lest I be a tad hasty ...), so how do I compensate? A slick set of wheels or a hoochie mama might fool yours truly into believing that the Grim Reaper calls nigh for me, but neither one can make a silk song fly from a boar's bazoo.

While I indulge in this particular contemplation, the ten finalists show their wares. A select few can sing down the heavens, the others merely sing well. Lucky bastards. Soon enough, the hour is up, the music fades, the show ends, and I stand and let fly a few bars of a Tom Jones ditty in the continuing hope that somehow, some way, one of these times my cursed genetics will relent and imbue me with the gift of song. Dusty skulks away to a different room. Nancy waits for the pause that comes when I take a breath and asks, "Have you written anything, lately?"

Et tu, Brutus?

P.S. After reading this, my wife stated she couldn't recall that '60s song and asked me to sing it. Thinking she's worked hard at emasculating me for the last twenty years and therefore another round of castration couldn't do any more damage, I complied. When I finished she said, "Wow, that didn't set my teeth on edge or anything else!" It's fifth grade all over again.

Copyright © Mark Webber 2004