Insomnia

You got it. I can’t sleep.  I go through these cycles fairly frequently – usually when I’m stressed about something, or there’s a full moon or its hot or “just because”.  Sometimes the cycle becomes so all consuming, that the mere presentation of a bed will send me into an anxious mess.

Last night, I pondered at about 4am about whether to go to the toilet. I *thought* I might need the toilet, and after pressing on my bladder it then became apparent that the question of whether or not to go was actually keeping me more awake than the need to go to the toilet itself.  So to cut a very long story short (this went on for at least an hour): I went to the toilet.

More often than not I get pretty annoyed when I can’t sleep. I toss and turn and then think about irritating things like whether the patterns on my duvet does actually look like Gordon Brown in the moonlight, or I get the Scissor Sisters I Dont Feel Like Dancin’ stuck in a loop on the opening lines “Wake up in the morning with a head like  ”what ya done”…”.   

But in my surreal trip to the toilet at 4am, as I creaked across the landing I was really awestruck as I glanced out of the window across the fields in the dawn light.  It was so breathtakingly beautiful.  All I can remember is this scene of utter stillness – green fields stretching out as far as the eye could see, with a layer of mist hovering above the fields against a dramatic grey backdrop of ominious cloud.  If I were a painter (and I can assure you I am not), I don’t think I could have painted a more astounding scene. 

I was of course too preoccupied and cheesed off with my insomnia and dawn chorus toilet visit to do what I now think would have been an absolutely marvellous thing to do (and yes I am slowly turning into an Enid Blyton character).  I should have stepped out into the scene and become a part of it.  No matter how dotty I would have looked running across the fields in my fluffy slippers and pink dressing gown, I should have embraced that moment.  I might have gone back to bed with a new perspective, or lungs filled with fresh dawn air which might have culminated in a remaining few good hours sleep.  Instead I spent another two hours tossing and turning listening to the Scissor Sisters on loop.

So coming from someone who has done the rounds with insomina: changed mattresses, bought black out curtains, bought a white noise machine, even invested in a CD of dishwasher sounds (I kid you not) – here endeth my lesson for today: to beat insomnia, embrace it. Embrace those exta moments your psyche has enabled you to experience.

Always take a camera to bed (ooerrr), and in all seasons have a pair of wellies by the door, just in case the mood takes you to prance across the field or around your estate – just because.  After all, if you are going to wake up to the Scissor Sisters, make sure its with a head like “What ya done?”

Being sucked in

Now that is an inspirational, positive headliner if ever I heard one. Yet in this youth obsessed world we live in, and as an aspiring singer who hasn’t “made it” these demon doubts occasionally creep in. 

Last night I had one of those moments as I rattled along in my battered old car, doing the number’s game (as the great John Mayer calls it, to “find a way to say that life has just begun”).  So this year, I thought, I’m going to be 33 … THIRTY FRIGGIN THREE goddamn it – as I nearly drove literally right over a roundabout (and not one of those embarrasingly pathetic little lumps in the road that you can’t help but drive over, but a full on tree-laden circle, complete with kerbs and everything).  Then … I thought, this time next year, I’m gonna be thinking … I’m going to be 34 … THIRTY FRIGGIN FOUR (I catch on quickly these days).

But I guess it isn’t really about the number per se.  It’s about being where you thought you were going to be when you reached the grand old age of X.  And I’m not really where I thought I would be. That’s a pretty sobering thought. Somewhere along the lines of getting a “good education”, pining down a “good career” and saddling myself with a nice noose of mortgage … I got lost.  I got sucked in.

Sucked in to the trappings of life and this takes me back to a movie I really didn’t get when I went to see Trainspotting in my early 20s.

“Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a f***g  big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of f****g fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f***k you are on Sunday morning”

It’s a pretty right-on quote – even though I haven’t quite reached the dizzy heights of matching luggage or an electrical tin opener.  And somewhere this morning, between pulling out my rubbish bin for collection, in my shades (yes, it is occasionally sunny in UK), and reversing my car out of my drive and my estate with box-like houses, I felt almost as if I was on the Truman Show. 

And thinking about it, I guess the above is why I’m such a fan of the film American Beauty.  Although, I never quite understood the weaker point of the film – that his transformation into “living” again was equated with seducing an under 18, smoking pot and buying a flashy car.  Perhaps that in itself showed that even with enlightenment in today’s world: we’re all doomed to a life trapped by escapism and material goods. 

I’ve always been a fan of Director Sam Mendes, who seems like he’d be a right old hoot to have down at the local pub, pondering the meaning of life.  His latest unofficial sequel to American Beauty was the somewhat overrated “Revolutionary Road”.  Boy meets girl and shares same wild dreams, boy and girl get “sucked in” with 2 kids, mortgage, white picket fence & dog called rover (ok the dog was a lie).  Girl gets bored and dreams of life in Paris. Girl accidentally gets pregnant with 3rd child, girl tries to carry out her own abortion … girl dies (apologies to all of you who have not seen the film).  After many years of pondering what Director Sam Mendes really thinks about the meaning of life, he obviously has come to the rather mundane but goody-two-shoes conclusion of “be contented with what you have”. Yawn. Not very revolutionary to me.  Seems like Mr. Mendes wasted a lot of time tying himself in knots.

I digress.  So,where was I?! Oh yes, as I ponder the perils of my youth, there’s an undeniable part of me that yearns for safety and stability.  And that part of me is the one that picked the safer options “just in case”: the mortgage,  the professional qualification, the savings, the “accountant”  … Like a child cuddling up to sleep every night, I need to know “everything is going to be ok”.

… But ironically society’s obsession with age and the ominous pinnacle of 30 has resurrected my childhood dreams.   The tear jerking thought of approaching my deathbed in my 80s and reminiscing at the sheer volume of financial controls I will have successfully tested throughout my mediocre career as a middle something accountant … sends a shudder down my spine.  We all want to make a mark on the world, at the very least one  of which we are proud of in some way.

And so where does that leave me?  For me personally, life is about juggling these two opposing sides: the need for security with the courage to fulfill my dreams.   If I think about it logically “being sucked in” … is really a continuum, and I’ve only travelled half way down it.  I’m not defined by my job or by a status symbol.  I don’t hang on Manager’s words in the hope of moving up the next rung in the career ladder.  I don’t dream of the next promotion in order to spend my increase on another financial noose.

I’m still largely defined by the child inside me – the one who not only reaches for the stars, but prefers to do so in the safety of her own mortgaged living room.  And whilst I don’t want to be a slave to my age, it still serves as an appropriate ticking time bomb reminding me I’ve only got one life …

The Orifice

Its not often I write a post about work-work, but there are moments when the day to day humdrum reaches the dizzy heights of my blog.

 

Having had a few months off work, blissfully soaking up the delights of the day, it was not only a rude awakening being shoved into the year end accounting process, but also a pretty sharp slap in the face to be surrounded by people talking in a completely different language – one where you use the most convoluted, string of words to embrace a simple concept. 

 

Normal person: “sound good?” 

Same person at work: “are we singing from the same hymn sheet?”  

 

It’s a language of pointless nothingness, or “Management Speak” as it’s commonly known.  So why do normal, self-respecting people use it given some fluorescent lighting and a row of desk pods?

 

I once worked with a Manager who, in effect, doubled the irritation by peppering emails with Management Speak encased in ‘single quotes’. Argggh!  Apart from irritating me, it had the double effect of dumbing down the message so it could be decoded successfully by a 5 year old.  Reading my emails was like being magically transported to my high chair with a plastic spoon edging towards my mouth: “choo-choo …open wide for the train”. But this particular Manager in question was a timid little soul, a bit scared of ‘rocking the boat’ and I’m under no illusion his Management Speak served as a bit of a cushion to keep everybody happy, pacify the masses, mixed in with a little butt kissing.

 

Yet still, I remember another crapweasel I worked with many years ago who not only used Management Speak but actually re-phrased it.  Sort of ‘re-branded’ it as if to make it his own. I distinctly remember a bit of a low point in a project where we all realised we’d screwed up the best part of a year’s work. 

 

Crapweasel: “The way I see it, the horse has left the stable … the question is, we just gotta find a way to catch it”

 

I don’t think I could contain myself in that rather blatant, yet abysmal rehash of “close the stable door after the horse has bolted”.  Crapweasel was a big fan of inventive Management Speak and used it to impress the big guns. And there is some ‘method to his madness’ as I have seen some positive correlations between Management Speak usage & job rank. But there’s a fine line with Management Speak, and Crapweasel didn’t quite pitch it right.  His inventions were a little too way out there and eventually Crapweasel was pretty much counselled out of the firm.

 

Yet here I am again, 10 years into my orifice career and it still trips off the tongue of all professionals alike – clever, stoopid, old, young, wise, foolish … and I even found myself on a couple of occasions stoop soooo low to use it myself. In fact, it can be cunningly used to your advantage”.

 

Manager X: “Acuvoice, what happened to that report I asked you to produce last week?”

 

Acuvoice: “Yeah … ummm … I think I ‘dropped the ball’ on that”

 

Manager X: “Cool, ok”

 

Bingo.

 

But yet, my fondest memories of the orifice have to be of those honest little souls who won’t play by the rules.  I was once privileged to be in a meeting with an enlightened colleague who actually wrote “bored” on one of the orifice mints and rolled it across the table in a meeting in a blatant ‘fingers up’ to the establishment moment.

 

Now that I treasure.

Ladies & Gentlemen …

First things first, I must apologise for my absence over the past few months.  I’d like to say it was because I was producing an album or working with the blind in Africa, but sadly its because the over zealous IT team at my new job have blocked my ability to upload files from an external source.   Ashamedly, I don’t actually have internet access at home … technophobe that I am.  So I’m sure there have been many a disappointed visitor to my site over the past few months

So what have I been up to? Asides from my new contract accountant role, treating patients with acupuncture and shoehorning in the odd jazz jam/open mic, I enrolled and completed a short drama course … but that’s another story (more to come in a separate post).

My biggest piece of news is that I have written my very first song! Well, my first song since G.C.S.E Music, many musical moons ago. I have, over the past 16 years, attempted to write the odd song but I never got that far before my lyrical talents quickly eroded any pretty chord sequences I managed to conjure up.  Surely not (I hear you say) – not with your clever quips and literacy magic!  But seriously: “The cat sat on a mat, with a hat” pretty much sums it up.  I seemed to oscillate between horrendous ladybird book rhyming or cheesy, corny lyrics that would make any self-respecting soul hurl into the nearest bucket.

But last night, something happened.  Having had a nice soak in a hot bath, I sat at my piano in my spotty, furry slippers and pink dressing gown (all the key ingredients) and I suddenly remembered this photograph sitting on my parents mantelpiece.   The words seemed to just trip off my tongue … the chords eloquent yet simplistic. 

I stayed up til midnight toiling away on the back of an old bank statement and had one of the most restful night’s sleep ever.  It’s been a landmark in my musical journey.  And today I can’t help but think why, why now?  I have admittedly been playing a lot of the Beatles and studying their lyrics (although I’m not comparing myself to the Beatles!!).  But obviously there is a story behind the photograph, and one that is pretty close to my heart following the recent flair up of a rather messy divorce.  Sometimes (and this is a corny cliche), there aren’t words to describe how you feel.  Somehow my emotions throughout the years built up, slowly & gradually & became entwined in the creative process (now that is poetic, if not a little self-indulgent). Maybe I’m going to have to wait another 20 odd years for a similar eruption?

So am I going to post it for you perusal?

HELL NO.  I’m still in my songwriting pampers.

Where the Light Is …

So for all of you that have found my post via a tag surf, I’ll debrief you on my current situ.  I recently entered the UK’s biggest singing competition outside of X Factor. It’s non televised, but out of 10,000+ applicants, I was one of about 250 that got through to the Regional Finals.

My Regional Final took place on Sunday night and … I didn’t show up, and I can’t really articulate why. There are a whole host of reasons – like not being able to find a decent backing track, and having had a cold recently, not having enough time to practice … but they don’t really cut the mustard.  My friends and family have been screaming at me: “its your big moment – this is your chance – why aren’t you taking the opportunity?”, but something in me just didn’t really care that much. 

Perhaps it was the seriously suspect voting strategy – where each contestant has to sell at least 25 tickets @ £7.50 a ticket (nearly a £200 entry fee) and the audience gets 2 votes.  It was never made clear to me by the competition organisers how the judges and the audience votes were combined, and therefore led me to believe it was more of a sales competition than talent.  Perhaps it was the seriously questionable “judges” that they managed to scrape together. Jane MacDonald, H from Steps, Cheryl Baker … and a few other non-entities.  Perhaps it was my fear of failing and what that might do to my confidence.

My decision not to go coincided with the arrival of a much anticipated CD, “Where the Light Is” .  It’s a truly fantastic CD of live performances by the legendary John Mayer with a mixture of his self-penned songs and some highly inspirational performances of covers such as “Free Falling”.  It got me thinking about whether John Mayer might have won an X-Factor show or some equivalent.   What with his breathy vocals – and the fact that most of John Mayer’s talent lies in his awesome guitar playing and songwriting skills – he’d probably not have even made it to boot camp.  

Not that I’m comparing myself to John Mayer, but I’d like to think that my talents are more than  mass-market vocal skills. After all, I play piano, create my own arrangement of original songs … so I guess opting out was the right thing for me to do at this point in time.  Even if I spend the rest of my life playing little gigs and scraping the money together to record the occasional album, at least its me.  Pure, authentic, vintage me … and I guess for me, that’s Where the Light is …

It’s Official: X Factor Fails to Recognise Real Talent

For the past several weekends, I have unashamedly bolted home from the Acupuncture Student Clinic, needles in one hand, white coat in the other to catch the latest X-Factor episode.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the standard of talent – not only from the impressive vocals but by interpretation and arrangement of songs (although how much of that is a result of production and management team input?).

This week’s evictee (Laura White) was a complete shocker and one which might actually persuade me to boycott the rest of the series (yes we can make a difference if we collectively switch off our TVs!).  As probably (in my humble opinion) the most talented pick of the current bunch, I cannot believe that a) the public failed to vote for her and b) that the judges voted her off.  Every week her performances have been near flawless, and her stunning rendition of “God Bless the Child” was truly jaw-dropping.  She undoubtedly has a distinctive sound and whilst her style is consistently and predictably heavily R&B influenced, she really has the power to (and sorry for the cliche) “make the song her own”.  Its an absolute travesty that she has been voted off, especially when there are some real lightweights in the competition (sorry, Eoghan and Daniel).

My first bone of contention is how the public could possibly fail to vote for Laura.  Clearly, the public is either completely clueless when it comes to talent, or they are voting with other criteria.  I think “sympathy” and “cuteness” are the real culprits.  Or perhaps its the population of the voting viewers: middle aged housewives (Daniel), teeny-bopper gals (Eoghan and his hair).

The judges constant pummeling of poor Daniel Evans may well have ironically reversed his fate as favourite to win.  Brilliant. I wouldn’t mind seeing the day Simon shells out a £1m contract for a singer he truly believes belongs on Bournemouth Pier.  Eoghan (and his hair) clearly elicits the “cuteness” public vote.  His rendition of the Nat King Cole classic, L-O-V-E, was truly horrific, with weedy vocals barely discernible against the big band backing. He looked as though he’d been plucked straight out of a low-budget stage show of Oliver.  Please England PLEASE, let’s not have him as our X-Factor winner, because he certainly does not have the X-Factor.

My second bone of contention is that ultimately, the judges voted off Laura.  How could this happen? Even against Ruth’s passionate but strained rock vocals, Laura is by far a more talented singer – with an interpretive intelligence way beyond her years and a sound that is soooo “now”. But they still voted her off.  Over the past few weeks, its almost as if Simon Cowell has decided to throw a spanner in the works for Laura.  Despite consistent outstanding performances, he’s criticised her for her lack of style. Why? What the hell does that have to do with her singing? Perhaps he’s bitter that she turned down X-Factor three years ago for another TV show?  Perhaps he’s eliminating the real talent so that his only survivor, Eoghan (and his hair), might win? Surely not: its a win-win situation for Simon, so surely he would pick the one that will sell the most records with the best chance of longevity? Or perhaps its to give Rachel (his favourite) a chance of winning?  Or perhaps its just a cheap ratings shot – no one wants to tune in week-on-week to see a long drawn out competition where the winner is a foregone conclusion?  

Whatever the reason, the root of it all lays at the central fault of the show: there is only one true winner of X-Factor: Simon Cowell.  All the contestants are just powerless pawns in his cruel but cash rich game.  It’s a large scale dolls house that Simon manipulates each week and its tiresome.  Why should one man control the bulk of the music industry and in such a heartless and talentless manner?

The other judges are indeed more pawns in the game.  Poor old Danni’s good looks and youthful (yet botoxed) demure has been eclipsed by this year’s starlett: Cheryl Cole.  Danni might be a successful club singer, but let’s face facts: she’s no Music Manager. She’s clearly going to be out on her ear next year.  And Louis is really just a tired, middle aged Yorkshire Terrier – renewed to nip Simon Cowell’s heels.  His reason for voting Laura off was based on “how much fight is left” highlights in itself a very sinister component to this competition – its like a modern day version of bear baiting – sure the absence of physical damage makes it ethical, but what about the emotional damage?  Why not stick spurs around their necks and have them really fight! Let’s also not forget Louis shameless comparison of JLS’s potential victory to Obama’s.  Come on Louis, its a singing competition, not world politics!

And I’m sick of the excerpts of the private lives of contestants.  I don’t care if Rachel was a drug addict and I don’t care if Eoghan (and his hair) has a new baby sister. I want to see some real talent people, and this TV show is buoying people up and then knocking them down.  Rachel looks like she’s had a frontal lobotomy, her character and strength beaten out of her.  It’s disgraceful.  No doubt Simon’s clever tactic of poisoning us all against the front runners (suspect Diana will be on the guillotine next week), together with his support of the poor drug addict will no doubt sky-rocket her to overnight success.  But folks, let’s vote on talent and talent alone!

So how do we fix this shameful tripe that dominates our TV’s and our record stores? Do we keep watching X-Factor? Do we keep buying music churned out from Simon Cowell’s record companies?  I think we should all unite and vote Daniel the winner – that’s bound to wipe the smug smile of Cowell’s face.  Come on folks, we can all do it together.  Comments appreciated

Acupuncture Works!

A strange title for a trainee Acupuncturist … but even after 3 years of studying Acupuncture and witnessing many success stories, those old demon doubts do creep in.  Does Acupuncture actually work?

Yesterday, I found out my current contract was not going to be renewed.  I’ve worked for this company for a few years now and its been comforting to have a steady income.  So, what with the current doom and gloom of the global economy: its a pretty scary position to be in.  Anyway, whilst sat at my computer, I obviously unknowingly tensed up and a few hours later, when I got up to go to lunch, my neck was in deadlock.  For the rest of the day, I did a great job of impersonating a Thunderbird puppet making full use of my swivel chair to look left and right.  Driving last night was pretty dangerous too, as I was completely unable to check my blind spot on either side.

Luckily I had my monthly Acupuncture treatment awaiting me at 6pm.  My Acupuncturist, needled Bl10 & GB20, cupped along my shoulder blades, needled a stiff neck point (between 2nd and 3rd MC bones, proximal to the head of the 2nd MC bone and boy did that hurt!) whilst I moved my head as far as I good from side to side and rubbed some wood lock oil into my shoulder (as well as doing maintenance treatment for my CF etc.).  She encouraged me to keep moving my neck. I noticed an immediate difference in that I was able to move my neck, but I still had some pain.

This morning I awoke to have an almost fully mobile neck with very little pain!  Now I know some of you sceptics might utter that sinful word ’placebo’ … but I say, placebo schemo – I feel normal again!

What Type of Singer Am I?

A silly question you might ask given that I’m 31 (soon to be 32) and I’ve been singing all my life.  But the answer is: I don’t really know.  I once resorted to a palm reader (yes, I have been that desperate) when I was having a directional life crisis.  I don’t remember much of what she said – except for one thing: “you’re like a swan really – on the surface you seem to glide along - but underwater your legs are paddling like mad”. 

Over the years that image has popped into my head a number of times and anyone who knows me will understand what it means: sane on the outside, bit of a nutter underneath.  The trouble with me is that I have to be the best at everything I do and I get distracted easily.  In the last week, I’ve started to research how to break into content writing, train as a speech level singing coach, start up an Acupuncture practice, train as a Chinese Herbalist, work as a report writing guru for a Retail company … all this on top of wanting to be an extraordinary singer.   I’ve got this bizarre, manic drive and I can’t calm it down.

My better half once suggested I take up a “relaxing” hobby. Something that I can just do and enjoy – to cut down my self-imposed stress levels.  So I took up tropical fish keeping.  Three weeks later, and I was knee deep in books about water hardness, lighting, reverse osmosis water, breeding cichlids, rearing aquarium plants … etc.  I know a hell of a lot about tropical fish and plants, but now my aquarium hobby is not a hobby anymore: its a source of stress.  As I wander past it each morning to make breakfast, the thin strands of angel hair algae and my growing snail infestation catch the corner of my eye and ruin my breakfast.  So I look out of the window, but even if that does draw my attention away from my failing fish keeping hobby - oh no, there’s an overgrown garden and a load of dead trees to highlight my failure as a gardener.

And this is my problem as a singer. In one week, I might watch the X-Factor and marvel at Laura White’s style and range … go to a jazz concert and end up vowing to be the best scat singer on the planet and then catch a clip of Patty Griffin with her soulful folky tunes and think “I wanna be a folk singer”.   I also want to write songs …

So where does this leave me?  I did go on a transcendental meditation course a year ago – and was startled at the ease with which I learned to meditate and the amazing sense of calm I felt.  So I’m thinking of going back to my secret mantra, and setting myself a target of meditating 20 minutes, twice a day.  I’ll let you know how I get on … perhaps in the depths of my own psyche I might discover finally what type of singer I am

Selling Out …

So I first started singing in public around my 29th birthday at a local jazz jam night and it had taken 28 years and 9 months to pluck up the courage to go for it.  Don’t get me wrong here: we aren’t talking Ronnie Scott’s – and we are certainly not talking attendance of 200 people.  Just a local jazz jam, at a clapped out old sports hall, with probably 15 attendees in total.  I remember that night and the weight it held in my mind. It was as though 29 years of dreaming, aspiring and hoping had culminated in this event: finally, I was living my dream. 

That night opened a door or two for me: but above all else, it was a great learning experience for me. For it taught me (and rather sadly) that the fear of failure had essentially stopped me from putting myself out there … from trying.  The safety of living in the fantasy was so deliciously comfortable and warm that I created many elaborate excuses to not pursue my dream.  And there I was, 29 years old … quivering like a wreck in a small village sports hall, nervously taking the mic for the very first time – having bypassed so many opportunities, and in some (very limited) circles was now considered ”too old” to pursue my dream as a singer.

That night was now nearly 3 years ago and I’ve come a long way since then – perhaps not on paper, but certainly emotionally.  My battle to overcome my fearful ways is an ongoing one and so powerful that for a very long time, I developed a sore throat whenever I sang two minutes of a song.  This lead me to various vocal tutors, and I even considered an ENT specialist – but ultimately it was a clever physiological response that I created through fear and to keep me in my warm, woolly haven of safety, of dreaming.  The possibility of greatness was far more alluring than the reality of trying. 

On paper, I’ve managed to sing at several jazz jams; learned the art of notating charts to my preferred key (and in a way so as not to p*** off elitist jazz musicians); sung at the Jamey Absersold School of Music, sung with various big bands, sung in pubs/restaurants and started accompanying myself on piano.  It’s not bad for a full-time accountant and part-time Acupuncture student.  But I’m still a pretty frustrated singer and haven’t quite got to where I want to be.  Perhaps the reason behind that, is that I’m not really quite sure where I want to go and in what direction. 

So, in a very weak moment a few months ago, I applied for the non-televised equivalent of “X-Factor”.  I sold out. Yessir. After years of berrating the X-Factor for its formulaic, money-spinning, “instant-coffee” notion of talent, I found myself merrily signing on the dotted line.  Why?  Yes why indeed.   My voice is by no means the Amy-Winehouseesque flavour of the month … in fact, my voice is well pretty vintage really and my musical tastes are pretty varied.  I’m certainly too old and a weighty UK size 10 for the girl band option (thankfully) and well … I’m different.  I’m certainly no mass-market product.

And last night’s X-Factor episode really draws home this point: these TV talent contests simply do not nurture talent.  Look at poor Leon Jackson, 2007’s X-Factor winner.  He won the show with his performances of Michael Buble’s re-inventions of the swing era.  Sadly, he’s not allowed to record these songs, because they don’t appeal to the masses (and the royalties of these well known songs would probably be too much of a profit dent in Simon Cowell’s pocket). 

One year on and his very first TV performance in months was in front of what will be essentially be this year’s winner – his biggest rival for the Xmas number one.   He gave a very stilted and uncomfortable performance: he was visibly crippled with nerves.  Why?  Onsite blogs seem to revel in their “I always thought he was crap anyway” comments: but in reality, its because he has not developed his artistry organically.  He’s been plucked out of his home town in his teens, and pummeled to overnight nationwide stardom and a number one Xmas single.  There is nowhere for Leon to go but down.  Who is going to care about this poor lad, a few years down the line when his CD is in the bargain basement at HMV?  Where’s Michelle McManus now? 

I digress. When I arrived for my audition, there were so many hopefuls, dolled up wandering around the hotel reception.  Some nervous young teenagers clinging hopefully to their parents.  For every Leon Jackson, there are thousands upon thousands of other hopefuls, whose musical dreams hinge upon these narrowly defined talent shows.  I ended up singing in front of three judges – just a couple of lines of “God Bless the Child”.  At the end of my offering, one of the judges told me to really “dirty the song up”.  Nice.  Particularly as its a song which is considered both “sacred and profane” (see Will Friedwald’s book:  Jazz Singing: America’s Great Voices from Bessie Smith to Bebop and Beyond)  lamenting the fact that religious belief seems to have no effect on people’s behaviour, and that you’re goddamn lucky if you’ve got your own money.  It was a rather inspired song choice in retrospect – perhaps I should have amended the lyrics: “God Bless the auditionee who’s got his own self-esteem”.  And I guess that’s why I’m giving it a shot.  I’m 31 now – and I’ve had enough life experience and musical experiences, to know deep down that win, loose or draw – this talent competition won’t make any difference to my musical aspirations or to me as a person.  Sure I might get a bit of a knock, but I’m strong enough in myself to take it.

So to cut a long story short: I got through.  Yay  me.  I get to sing in the regional finals – of which there are about 20 odd competitions and I think 1 person from each gets to sing in the finals.  The voting procedure is pretty suspect, not least from the fact that Jane MacDonald from the Cruise; Cheryl Baker; and a few other non-entities are doing the judging – but also from the fact that I have to sell tickets and that the audience also gets to vote.  I’ve emailed the organisers for more specifics, but well from the woolly answers I received – your guess is as good as mine, although I’m sure the sound “ch-ching” was the primary motivation.

I still don’t know if I’ll actually go for it in the regional finals … a stand against these formulaic TV talent shows, or another clever psychological avoidance tactic?  Hmmm, your guess is as good as mine … watch this space :-)

My Early Musical Career

So I’ve always wanted to be a singer – since I was a wee 4 year old lass, when I would totter around with and obsessively listen to John Lennon’s “Woman”. Not sure if that can be filed under “musical genius” or “psychotic kid” (cue psycho shower scene music: wee wee wee).  But with being a bit of an anxious performer and being gently shoved down the classical music route by some well meaning parents … I lost my way a bit.  I played classical piano throughout most of my childhood and was wheeled out twice a year. One to get that all important Grade X with distinction (anything less was worthless) and second the annual spring festival.  

Eugh! The Spring Festival.  Even now those words fill me with dread.   I hated festivals: and I don’t think I was ever able to verbalise why.  After all, I wanted to be a singer, so performing should set me alight right?  Wrong.  It would all start in Autumn when my la-di-da London Royal Academy music teacher would start filling out my Spring Festival applications. I would do my very best to say no, squirming away on my little piano stool – palpitations and anxiety setting my palms into a sweaty mess. But I somehow was never allowed to say no to them.  Ever. 

I could never really enjoy Autumn and Winter because this dark festival cloud was looming in the distant future.  The FESTIVAL (*shudder*).  And it was something I never understood: I want to be a singer, but I hate performing at festivals.  So after months of fear-based frantic practicing, the day would actually arrive.

The festival would showcase the county’s finest young pianists with their renditions of Bach or Beethoven, played in front of friends, family and a panel of judges. But I never saw it as an exciting talent competition.  I would just see a set of very nervous and anxious children, dressed up like dolls, desperate to win their parents approval, whilst the parents looked on beaming with pride, watching their child fulfill what was essentially their own ambition.  The judges would then talk through each performance and crtique it, eventually awarding first prize and a tacky cup to some poor unfortunate little soul.  And for those other poor unfortunate little souls who lost, it was probably just another dent, another blow, another negative reinforcement to their musicality.

As for me, I just never understood what was so clever about being able to perfectly recite some archaic piece of music.  To me there was no creativity, no individualsim and nothing at all remotely musical about music festivals.  In fact, it seemed to rest entirely in the teacher’s ability to interpret music in accordance with the judge’s opinions and pass this on to their pupils.  It was no surprise that the winners were often coached by the same teacher.  I was so crippled by nerves and anxiety, I’d usually forget the notes – my worst fears being realised.  I rarely won anything.   To add insult to injury, my elder sister was quite adept at doing no practicing until the very last minute and walzing in winning sometimes several cups in one bout of Spring festivals – often with the same piece of music.  So, not only did I  fail several times each Spring to bring home the goods, I’d also have to endure 12 months of an altar of worship located in our dining room to my sisters festival achievements and I’d have to accompany my parents and sister to the “Winner’s Concert”and watch her showcase her genius, yet again.  That’s right, as if the ordeal of the actual competition wasn’t bad enough – if you managed to win it, you’d have to re-perform the piece again, with even more pressure not to screw it up!

I’d usually go along to the awards presentation, accompanied by my parents and award-winning sister – who was/is a definitely talented classical pianist.   I remember one year sticking my fingers up to the proverbial festival establishment by rocking up to the awards dinner in a short denim skirt with trainers (political activist in the making or fashion-challenged?).   I was busy picking my nose or some such habit, whilst various girls and boys tickled the ivories with their award-winning fingers when my name was called out by the judges.  Turns out, I had won an award: “for the most promising musician who didn’t win any cups”. It was a moment I think I’ll always remember, as I squeaked across the festival floor with my groovy trainers to collect my special prize, much to the embarassment of my parents at my ill-chosen attire.  As the judges commended me on being “very good, but not quite good enough to win cups” (ta very much), they handed me this oversized trophy.  It was essentially a mini-keyboard made out of wood and silver and to put it kindly: it had seen better days.  As I was handed this monstrosity, the silver banding slipped off the award and clanked loudly on the floor.  I then gave the classical community what for as I bent over, flashing my knicks in my short denim skirt to pick it up.  A proud moment for my folks.

I won this award it turns out 2 or 3 times in a row and every year I’d reluctantly send it in to get in engraved.  At the time it seemed like the “not quite good enough” consolation prize and it was ugly and big compared to the collection of beautiful polished cups that it was juxtaposed to.  But now I look back, I’m proud of that trophy as it kind of mirrored who I was as a musician: unusual, odd, a bit rough around the edges and a bit out of place in the classical community.  The truth was, that I was never really a classical musician – I appreciated it and did a darn good impression of being a classical pianist; but it never moved me like pop, rock, soul, jazz and blues.  I just didn’t fit the classical box.  And the word “promise” carries so much more weight than winner, who’s only a winner until next year’s starlet eclipses the title.  But promise signifies so much more: glimmering potential, the best is yet to come … and I thank the music festivals for not reinforcing a musical career that essentially wasn’t me.