I Can’t Sing
Let us begin thusly: I cannot sing. I am very musical in other respects and am well trained enough to know this is not simply an opinion. I cannot sing in a way that is pleasing to anyone’s ear. That said, singing is also fun. So when I was at the Southeastern Writers Conference[1] and it was suggested[2] that we go find somewhere that we could do karaoke, I responded enthusiastically.
We ended up at a local bar where we rented a private karaoke room. It allegedly had room for ten people, but our five (two poetry professors, two lawyers-who-write, and a journalist) filled it pretty nicely. We got drinks, chicken strips, and pretzel bites, and set to it.
I only had one drink, a blue and pink thing that came out of a slushie machine and had far more sugar than alcohol in it. If I was buzzed on anything, it was glucose.
Inside that soundproof, neon-lit room, reality disappeared. I never did learn to sing, but boy-howdy did I. We took turns and picked themes. 80s songs. Power ballads. Queen songs. Duets. I started with Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation”, did a pit stop somewhere with the B-52s “Love Shack” and ended with Billy Joel’s “Only the Good Die Young.”
You can probably guess my age based on that alone.
I lost all inhibition. I banged my head and stomped my feet so hard to Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” that my knees hurt the next day. I swiveled my hips so violently to Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls”[3] that my waist was sore. I sang Meatloaf’s “Paradise By The Dashboard Light” with such gusto it’s considered adultery in some churches. I ruined my voice and ended up sounding like Harvey Fierstein for the rest of the week. I loved the aches and pains because each time I felt them they reminded me of the fun I had.
The songs we sang were mostly the songs of our youth. I can’t speak for the rest of the crowd, but I spent most of my youth inhibited AF, as the kids say these days. I was so worried about what other people would think of me. Knowing how terrible my voice is, there’s no way I would have stood with a mic in my hand in front of two people I’d only just met (the other two were old friends) and croak Pat Benetar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” in full volume. Not when the song was on the actual charts.
But now? Three decades later[4]? I could not give a damn what anyone thought. I was letting everything loose in a completely safe, completely harmless way. Dancing, singing, bonding for life with some really fantastic people, eating junk food, and listening to some banger tunes and remembering where I was when I first heard them.
I love being over fifty[5]. I mean, I really love being over fifty. I feel fully myself in a way I didn’t when I was young. Who I am is not shaped by anyone else anymore. If you don’t like me? Go away. If you don’t like my singing? Get out of the karaoke booth.
But if you’re my girlz[6], you’ll come in closer. You’ll sling your arm around my shoulder and not care about how sweaty we are and we’ll sing the Chicks’ “Goodbye Earl” together as friends do.
So I guess I take back what I said in the beginning. I can sing. You may not like my singing, but that’s okay. You may not like me, but that’s okay, too. I don’t care about either one. I like singing and I like me. I like pure, unadulterated fun with like-minded people. I can sing loud, off-key, rough around the edges, and with enthusiasm. It’s about joy, not quality. This isn’t American Idol, it’s a karaoke booth on a Tuesday night.
[1] Southeastern Writers Association
[2] Passive voice intentional. No one in particular is getting credit or blame for this.
[3] In case you were wondering, it’s me. I, personally, make the rocking world go round.
[4] Or more.
[5] Okay, a good bit over fifty.
[6] I’m talking about you, Bonnie Jean and Jami
Buy my book, Devil’s Defense, or the audiobook, order the sequel, Devil’s Hand, and/or find me on Substack.