THE DOCTOR IS IN

FULL COMMITMENT

 

At the beginning of each semester, my voice teacher asks us to specify what we want to get out of the class. Last semester, as noted here, my objective was to survive the experience of singing in front of others. Since I am, miraculously, still here, I’ve had to revise my goals this semester.

Technically, I have been struggling with a not-uncommon issue. I am most comfortable singing in my “head voice,” the high end of my range, and I’m okay in my “chest voice,” the lower voice we can use for both speaking and singing. But there are two, sometimes three, transitional notes between the two voices that give me a lot of trouble. Generally, I just bury them—in most songs, it’s not hard to glide past them en route to more solid ground. I decided that this semester I would find out if there is a way to strengthen them.  And I would continue to work on that deer-in-the-headlights presentation style.

The songs I choose for myself, and those people recommend to me, tend to be quiet, introspective, emotionally complex and sometimes wryly funny. It doesn’t surprise me that this is how people see me; it’s how I see myself; it’s how my stories are described and, when I painted, my paintings were like that, too.  This style feels organic to me, like a fingerprint.

I decided I needed to shake that up.

An acting teacher used to tell us, “The best protection is stark naked,” meaning that if you commit yourself to a role and to your character’s objectives, and open yourself completely to the moment onstage, there is no room for self-consciousness or second-guessing. It’s when you indulge in half-measures that you screw up. With that in mind, I made the decision to go for broke.

I settled on Gershwin’s “They All Laughed” because the range is wide enough so that to hit both the high and low notes comfortably, I need to spend a lot of time in that middle range; because it contains no emotional subtlety whatever—it is straightforwardly brash, confident and joyous; and because the rhythm is complex enough so that I have to move my body in ways that would be considered dancing in a coordinated person just to keep track of the downbeat. In other words, although there were middle notes, there was no middle ground: I had to either throw myself into the song, put myself out there 100%, or mess it up completely.

On Monday evening, I put on a dress that I have never worn outside my apartment since Caroline Leavitt convinced me to take it home from a clothing swap. It’s just a little too short, a little too tight. I put on eye makeup, too. Why not go for broke? And I threw myself into the song.

When I was done, Martha, my teacher, asked me how it had felt. “Okay,” I said, truthfully, “except for those transitional notes. They’re wobbly and flat.”

“I’m not hearing wobbly and flat,” she said. “You’re on key, but your voice can’t decide whether it wants to be chest or head.”

The commitment thing again. “What do I do?”

“I’d suggest, because this is a conversational song, not a classical one, that you use chest.”

“But that’s the problem. My chest voice doesn’t go up that high.”

She laughed. “That’s why you’re in a class.” She explained that my chest voice needs more breath support in that range than I was giving it. She had me shout the song, in time, as loud as I could, pushing my speaking voice as high as it would go without switching into head. When she was satisfied with my high-pitched booming, she had me switch over to singing. “Louder,” she coached me. “Harder.” I realized that I was singing with the same force I had summoned to yell—and the notes were there.

When it ended, I realized other things. I had been concentrating so hard on resolving the transitional issue while keeping track of the syncopation that I’d forgotten to be nervous. And my quiet, introspective, restrained self had filled the room with sound.

“Wow,” one of my classmates said. “I had no idea you had such a big voice!”

“Neither did I,” I answered.

Martha nodded. “There’s a lot more in there than you think,” she said.

There’s a lot more in there than I think.

Wow.

Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog. Send your questions to her at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.

Comments

[Susanne Dunlap]

I think that's such a metaphor for the way we can all be in creative situations: fearful, concentrating on the wrong things, worried about things we shouldn't be and blind to those we should be worried about. Sounds like me anyway! So I hope I, too, can someday say, "There's a lot more in there than I thought!"

[thegrowlingwolf]

I'd suggest you learn how to read music; maybe learn to play the piano; transitional notes are no problem to professional singers--either that or develop your "perfect pitch"...it can be learned if you've got a good memory (recall). Also learn to use your microphone (distance from your mouth) to control your volume--learn how to breathe at the right time in the piece you're singing, breath control is also note control. It's all about time, as Artie Shaw said. Your best singers always know where the 1 is.

[Susan O'Doherty]

Susanne, thanks so much. That is exactly the pretzel twist I'm working to find my way out of.

Growlingwolf, thanks--I'm not sure what made you think I don't know how to read music or play the piano, or that I use a microphone. The issue of transitional notes is not an uncommon one, especially for people like me who are used to backing up other singers--we learn how to downplay the uncertain notes and no one notices because we're not the important voices. It sounds like you have good experience in solo singing, which I imagine is a great aid in finding one's "voice" in writing.