Sing Baby

on needing windows

It’s funny to admit but I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to see Travis’s face from the sound booth. It wasn’t that I needed to see him but I thought it would improve our communication. We could have some nonverbal exchanges. I could frantically wave my arms if things were going awry. I could make dumb faces. Putting on a show generally eases my nerves. The performer in me takes over when things get awkward, as I assumed they would. At the minimum, having a visual on him might make me feel less alone in such a vulnerable state.

I’d spent a lot of time in his recording studio working on post-production for my pilot. We’d also recorded an audio book together where I sat next to him and his many, many pieces of intimidating equipment. Hours upon hours were accumulated in that space and, yet, I couldn’t remember if there was a window between the control room and the sound booth.

By the time we descended the stairs to the studio, I’d all but forgotten about the silly window. Today we were embarking on a different kind of project and my nerves were totally frantic. A slew of things coursed their way through my mind, namely fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit this is bad ahhhhhhh abort mission abort mission gaaahhh!

Turns out there was no window. I asked about it, as casually as I was able, while Travis began setting up a microphone and music stand. He said those soundproof windows are insanely expensive and he had better uses for his cash. One look around the jaw-droppingly impressive space, with its countless boards and monitors and cords and buttons and dials and switches and screens, and it was obvious that a veritable boatload of money was spent on it. In lieu of a window, we had a wall. All the communication between us would happen over microphones and headphones.

After about 30 minutes of setting volumes, microphone heights, levels, and headphone connectivity, we were ready to start. I could hear him in my headphones and he could presumably hear me in his. Instinctively I reached for the water bottle next to me. It was one of many, many emotional support supplies nearby - multiple drinks, chapstick, my phone, mints, snacks, candy. One last gulp of water.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

I was recording a singing demo. It was a pet project, just some covers sung to tracks in order to show off my voice. A testimony to these pipes of mine. A memento for when I’m older. An ego boost for this unemployed actor (no bookings in 19 months and counting). It was also a bit of promotional material that my agents and manager can use in the process of procuring auditions. All things considered, the stakes were pretty low. Nevertheless I was big time nervous.

Travis hit some button on the other side of the wall and suddenly the orchestra swelled in my headphones. My heart was beating fast. My eyes were closed. I tried to feel the carpet under my socks, having decided that shoes were a hinderance. The final chord of the strings section landed softly. It was my time. I opened my mouth. Sound came out. Lyrics came out. I was actually singing. I was singing a song. Holy shit.

We got through almost the entire first verse before I tripped up on some lyrics. Okay. Okay, that wasn’t too bad. I survived. Travis offered to play it back for me. Sure, I said without thinking. As the sound of my own voice blossomed in my ears, I immediately and instinctively cringed. A visceral response took over my body. As the verse played out I tried hard to breathe a little while listening. I wanted a bit more control over my body. We got to the point where I tripped up. I laughed. Okay. Breathe. It’s not that scary.

I asked Travis to play it back again. On the second time through I was able to actually listen to what I was hearing. I put on my technician hat. That part was a little flat. I should breathe here and not there. I liked that phrasing toward the end. Let’s pull back the volume on that word. I was a half beat behind the orchestra here. As I listened, I noticed that within a whirlpool of mistakes, there were a few moments that sounded…nice. Dare I say, they might have even sounded good. Yeah, yeah, I think they sounded good.

“Let’s go again.”

I have a complicated relationship with my voice. Puberty was a nightmare hellscape in general but she was a real bitch when it came to my vocal chords. I remember on several occasions answering our family landline.

Patrick: “Hello!”
Caller: “Oh, Hi Shannon (my sister) —”
Patrick: “No, it’s—-”
Caller: “Erin?” (my other sister)
Patrick: “Nope, it’s—”
Caller: “Monica (my mother), gosh I could barely recognize you! How are you?!”

Half the time I would just hand over the phone without correcting the person on the other end. Too embarrassed at the comedy of errors. My voice had betrayed me and led some distant aunt or uncle into thinking I was one of my sisters.

It was also the telltale sign, among many smaller signs, that I was a gigantic raging homo. In St. Louis in the 90’s, there was absolutely nothing worse than being a homo. Even being called a homo, or any iteration thereof, was the source of 85% of all playground brawls. And my voice, with its high pitch, effeminate lilt, and slight lisp was the quintessential “gay voice.” It was a trumpetous clarion call to bullies far and wide. And answer they did.

Then I started singing.

I fell absolutely head over heels in love with making music. It was in middle school when I began collecting Broadway cast recordings: Rent, Les Miserables, Chicago, A Chorus Line. Those albums got excessive play in my now-extinct portable CD player. Without trying, I knew every lyric and every note. I sang along with Colm Wilkinson (the only Valjean as far as I’m concerned, fight me) with all the power my little middle school lungs could muster. My family can regale stories of hearing me from literally down the street while I was One Day More-ing in the living room. Like so many young singers I assumed that loud meant good.

Then in high school I joined the church choir and quickly became a soloist. I sang for hundreds of masses, funerals, and weddings over the next 20ish years. I did community and school musicals. I auditioned for local productions and even the national tour of Rent, where I had to lie about my age on the audition form. I sang for my high school graduation. Yes, it was from Dreamsgirls, thanks for asking. I even auditioned for opera school. By some act of divine mercy I was not accepted and found the theatre department instead.

While I loved singing and did a lot of it in front of a lot of people, I had a contentious relationship with my voice itself. Those early years of pubescent gay speech laid a murky foundation for the coming years. When I sang in my car or shower or room, I was convinced that I was a Steve Perry rock tenor who could do Italian arts songs, 90’s R&B, Broadway musicals, and gospel. I thought I was a superstar-in-waiting. A vocal chameleon who could do anything. But whenever I would hear recordings, I’d think, that’s not what I sound like. That’s not me! Who is that?!

My musical education also remained severely anemic. I could follow sheet music but my sight reading was laughably bad. Going a cappella almost always meant I went flat. My tonal memory is only marginally above average. And I can get real pitchy real quick. I was the choral equivalent of a feral animal. This led to more public train wrecks throughout my singing career than I care to recall. Missed entrances, early entrances, battling over rhythm with conductors in front of an audience, inexplicable key changes, flubbed lyrics. You name it, I’ve done it. They’re all rolled into my singer’s complex, into my voice complex.

Yet there I found myself, at age 35, in a professional recording studio singing to karaoke tracks in order to salvage whatever pride I still had about my talent and maybe get some more auditions.

For the next several hours, Travis and I went back and forth doing take after after after take. This was old hat for him but I worried I was becoming annoying. He reassured me that this was part of the process. We’d record a short section then listen to it. I’d make some tweaks and we’d do it again. Over and over and over. For hour after hour. I’d long since forgotten to be nervous. Instead I got into the groove. Eventually my voice and brain were fried. We agreed that we’d reached the point of diminishing returns. But we felt like we “got it.” I’d landed the plane. Anything I could have done, I did.

I took the headphones off and headed to the control room. I smiled as I walked pass the wall without a window. What a stupid thing to fixate on, I thought. While in the weeds of recording I couldn’t have told you what color the walls were, what musical instruments were nearby, what the temperature was, or even if I was in a room at all. I was too deeply in the zone.

Travis played back the completed song from start to finish. I braced myself as two giant speakers blasted out my own voice at me. There were parts that weren’t perfect. Moments where I was just a hair off from the track, moments where I was just slightly under the pitch. But there were a few sweet moments where my voice soared, a few moments of real musicality. A few moments where I could channel my middle school choir teacher, Mrs. Simms, and say to myself, “Sing Baby!”

If I had infinite time and infinite resources I could probably get that track from good to great. If I had infinite time and infinite resources I could also study voice full-time and get myself closer to the rockstar musician I believe to be hiding inside, waiting to be released. But I don’t have infinite time and infinite resources. I only have finite me. Me as I am. All I have is this effeminate, gay sounding, occasionally pitchy, Mack truck of a baritone voice box that has been known to comfort those in despair, celebrate love, bring people closer to god, and be heard down the street while belting out show tunes.

And, if nothing else, I think that is worth recording.

Windows be damned.