Singing between the legs and synapses

It’s very windy tonight. It looks like a sud­den storm that mete­o­rol­o­gists will not have seen com­ing. I had fall­en asleep after my work­day and the squalls against my win­dow woke me up. I then sat down at the piano, played a few chords and, as I had been doing for the past few weeks, I made jumps from fifths. From C to B, two octaves higher.

Three years ago, I was scream­ing vic­to­ry for shout­ing a B‑flat. Since then, the high A is not bad and I am grad­u­al­ly learn­ing to hear and sing the B flat, some­times the B, then the C. This week­end, while singing these same straight lines while bak­ing my bread, I pushed a note that I thought was strange. I went to see what I had achieved. A C#, my dear.

It was not a beau­ti­ful note, but it was no longer a cry, but rather the appro­pri­a­tion of a new ear.

I have been stub­born­ly study­ing singing for four years, year in and year out. Redis­cov­er­ing these high pitch­es that I have so often been accused of is not with­out pain, but it is worth it. There are many obsta­cles, start­ing with age, these high notes com­ing out of my mouth are no longer juicy like those of my first hor­mones. What­ev­er, if there is a grace achieved this year, is the plea­sure of sit­ting at the piano and pour­ing, not tears, but a song. I let myself go more and more, to recon­nect with a dis­creet, very per­son­al soul. I’m get­ting more and more dis­mis­sive of analy­sis. I just need to change and sing.

The clas­si­cal tech­nique may not be, at first glance, the best ther­a­py, as it looks like vocal Cross­Fit. For exam­ple, I have to assim­i­late some rather painful vocal exer­cis­es, designed for pro­fes­sion­als. I can bare­ly do it and with­out too much musi­cal sub­tle­ty, because I am still too imbued with aca­d­e­mi­cism. When I was young, I would have spent hours vocal­iz­ing on Rubi­ni (one of the first great tenors who had a voice as loud as a young lady).

Then, I am not as assid­u­ous in my exer­cis­es as the expense requires. Is that mon­ey thrown out the win­dow ? An accoun­tant will say yes. But I can’t stop. I gave up the choir because it was too demand­ing and, in the end, unsat­is­fac­to­ry (for both the spec­ta­tor and the singer). I only agreed to be part of a small ensem­ble and that’s the max­i­mum I can do.

Beyond these world­ly con­sid­er­a­tions, there is the singing, the emo­tion and the health that it brings. There is this chest that ris­es, there is this throat that frees itself, there is this heart that con­soles itself.

It makes me want to do solos and I rec­og­nize here my deep desire to com­mu­ni­cate, to com­mune. I write to con­nect with oth­ers, I sing to attract sailors. Come to think of it, it’s the same as learn­ing Por­tuguese. I am enrolled in cer­tain meth­ods that put me in touch with peo­ple. It looks like the same quest (and the same drama?).

Does singing soft­en morals ? Yet mine remains lech­er­ous. It’s a good thing my voice is draped in a method to hide my obscene thoughts.

I like that word, obscene. Off the stage. Final­ly, the best the­atre is the one out­side our soul, between the legs and synaps­es of the human condition.