Sing a song of sixpence

I like to sing.  I can sing.  I am a singer.  I sing.  I love it.  My vocals are on three albums and I’ve performed in front of thousands.  Singing is great for the soul and can lift your spirits instantly.  And if you’ve ever raised a note to the air then yes you did not need me to tell you that.

This musing leads me to a story on the gift of song, when I, with my 27 years of life, stood at the front of my church to teach a new song to the congregation.  Musicians; check.  Rehearsal complete; check.  Singer; check…Prepared; most would boldly say “Yes”. 

No one can really tell exactly what happened between the rehearsal of said new song and the time approximately 35 minutes later when it was to be taught.  I can only assume that I was elsewhere, there in body but not in mind.  The band started, playing the first verse before the vocals were due to kick in.  Whilst this was playing there was a distant thought in the back of my mind that I had in fact never heard this sound before.  Just as I opened my mouth I remembered that I was the one with the microphone and that 100 heads were looking my way.  I did not panic.  No.  I was simply going to improvise. 

Error. 

Improvisation does not and will not ever work in this case.  You cannot lead people to improvise the exact same thing as you.  As an entire congregation listened to me busk my way through a verse and a chorus I was left rather impressed with my ability to create new song.  Then reality kicked in, I saw the damage and a kind girl joined me at the microphone to try and heal the situation.  The irony of the situation…when the congregation joined in, I knew it.

I’d like to say this sort of event was a one off but no…I once auditioned for a musical about mental illness.  Yes tis true, there is a musical out there about mental illness.  I entered the room and was greeted by a team of two, and a pianist in the corner.  I started with a monologue.  This is nothing extraordinary.  The piece was not about mental illness…until that day.  I started and ended.  And then realized I’d left out the middle.  So the sketch did not come across as written and I looked instead, not like I was auditioning for the part, rather the part was based on me!  Too embarrassed to explain that I had completely mucked up the monologue, I moved onto the song.  Surely all could be redeemed.  No.   Overwhelmed by the fact that I had most probably come across to these three strangers in a tiny cell audition room as a complete loon, I realized the introduction had once again caught me unawares.  I seriously must invest in some warning siren for when a piece of music is about to begin.  As I opened my mouth to sing, I felt my cheeks begin to go red, then redder, until finally I was beetroot.  Clothed now like a tin of Heinz tomato soup I sang the song.  Several minutes later I left the room smaller than I had entered it.  I believe that later that day, I did cry for quite some time over my inability to do what it says on my tin.  

However folks, let us not forget the triumph of the day…I did remember the tune.  Yes, yes indeed.  But the audition…well that was not to be mine.