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.