Disclaimer: This will be long, and will be one of those posts that’s heavy on my feelings, emotions, and life experiences. If that’s not your thing, feelfree to move on. I am always somewhat surprised that anyone actually reads this drivel.

My mother loved to sing. She really, really loved singing. There was always music in our house. My dad played guitar a little but wasn’t that good at it; he was a musician in high school, but his instrument was the Sousaphone and he didn’t continue with it. My mom played clarinet in addition to singing. 

I honestly don’t remember enough of Mom’s singing voice to say if she was any good. Her pitch was good and she had a voice part somewhere between alto and soprano. She liked hymns, Anne Murray songs, and country music. We sang together when I was a youngster, and she had me convinced I had some aptitude for it.

I started out as a boy soprano, before I hit puberty. In elementary school I sang a song in a little show called “Children of Mother Goose,” which was fun if not particularly good. Later, as my voice changed, I became involved in middle school choirs. I became a tenor, then a baritone. 

High school brought talent shows, musicals, a more formal choir under the wonderful Jeanne Busse, and selection for multiple regional and all-state honors choruses. My friend David Sparks and I did a little recording; he was a brilliant instinctive piano player. We had a lot of fun.

This is also when my interest in audio blossomed into a real specialty. A career on the radio led to a career in radio engineering, and later live sound, recording, and audio for video. Having sung, I made vocals my specialty, learning everything I could about capturing, sweetening, recording, processing, and even coaching vocals. Because to me, there is nothing so beautiful as a great singing voice. I wish I had one.

Since high school I have been very shy about my own voice. I have met, known, worked with, loved, and developed hopeless crushes on people with amazing, breathtaking voices and vocal talent. Yes, I’m as susceptible as any man to a woman’s physical beauty, but the really direct route to my heart is through my sensitive, discerning ears.

Because I know voices, I know mine is nothing special. Harry Chapin, a great storyteller, relates a tale in a song called “Mr. Tanner” that has always struck fear into me. Harry worked in lyrical poetry; I suck at that. So if you don’t mind, let me relate the story in prose, which is my medium.

In the midwestern state of Ohio lived a man who ran a dry cleaning shop. He’d built his business to be the finest in the city and took great pride in it. He also had a tremendous baritone voice! He was in demand at local events and practiced constantly; he loved music but never considered it as a way of making a living.

Friends were always pestering him, saying that he was wasting his gift, that he should sing instead of spending his time as a cleaner. He had a great career ahead of him! He would be a sensation! He should arrange his debut!

It took time. He fought it. But finally he began to buy what they were selling. Maybe he was that good! Maybe he should give it a try! So, with the help of his friends and through the depletion of most of his life’s savings, a concert promoter in New York City set up a date. He rented a concert hall. He arranged travel, publicity, ticket sales. He was excited! It was happening!

The night of the show arrived. Lights came up, the curtain rose, and he stepped onto the stage beaming! Everything seemed to move so quickly. He sang his heart out, and as we all do, he has no idea about his high points, but he heard every little fault in his own performance. But he gave it his all, pouring his very soul into every quaver and crescendo. He felt cautiously triumphant. He had done it – his big debut was in the books!

Waking the next day to the morning paper in his hotel room, he searched quickly for the review! He knew the critics had been present. He saw them, poised on the aisles for a quick escape. He could certainly say this: they’d been concise. Four sentences.

“Mr. Martin Tanner, baritone, of Dayton, Ohio made his town hall debut last night. He came well prepared but unfortunately his performance was not up to contemporary professional standards. His voice lacks the range of tonal color necessary to make it consistently interesting. Full time consideration of another endeavor might be in order.”

Returning to Dayton, Mr. Tanner faced a barrage of questions from his friends and supporters. They all wanted to know about the big show! How had it gone! What was the outcome! He was polite, of course, and grateful, but he offered no real answers.

And he never sang again.

Though some say, if you find yourself downtown in the late night hours, when only the street lights and traffic lights offer relief from the gloom, and if you wander close by his cleaning shop, you might hear him singing softly and shyly to himself as he finishes his nightly work.

I feel Mr. Tanner’s heartbreak, but I also want … no, I NEED that awful review. I could easily find myself believing the people who tell me I can sing, even though I know better! It is SO EASY to be seduced by kind words and wishful thinking. And that is a distraction I can’t allow. I have real, talented, powerful, beautiful voices that deserve my attention and my best work.

I had myself thinking that my best friend had given me the “kind” thumbs down after hearing something I did recently. Turns out I was a little wrong, but I am still chalking that one up in the L column. In fact it’s so bad that I’m posting it here to attract jeers, not cheers. Warts and all. This is how bad I am when I really try! Imagine what my poor steering wheel hears!