I sing. At home, in the car. Not in public, though. Show tunes, classic rock, country, folk. I am fond of Rent and the work of Steven Schwartz, and Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel. My kids get after me for my singing, but I do it anyway.
My father sang, at home, in the car. Show tunes, some big band, some country. He was fond of The Sound of Music and Marty Robbins.
There is something freeing in song. It takes you out of yourself. For me, it calms me and clarifies my mind. It reflects -- or sometimes changes -- my mood.
All too often we think of music as the province of professionals. We share songs, but it is records, or videos, of other people singing. We do not share our own voices. Except for church or carols at Christmas ( and for some people, not even then) or, for some brave souls, karaoke, we are silent, we reserve our music for ourselves. It is not good enough, we think. Oh, we many of us sing, as I do, to ourselves, or only to those close enough that we don't care what they think.
Harry Chapin wrote poignantly about this in "Mr. Tanner." A man sings beautifully, to the delight of his friends and neighbors. At their urging, he makes a professional debut, only to be savaged by the critics. He never sang again, except quietly to himself.
We need to reclaim our voices raised in song for ourselves. Music is one of the things which make us human. (Although is is not exclusively human: many mammals sing, after a fashion.) It is as important as speech. I only wish I had more occasion to sing with my friends.
A few minutes ago, in my kitchen, I was singing "Barcelona" from Company (one of the few Sondheim songs I can actually sing). I stopped, and listened: both of my two elder children were singing quietly to themselves. The Not So Little Drummer Boy was singing a song from, as is typical for him, a relatively obscure band I had never heard of. Railfan, to my delight, was singing "Wilkommen" from Cabaret.
I seem to have passed along a family tradition. I am so proud.
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