No talent shouldn’t silence your song

Tuesday, February 3, 1998

No talent shouldn’t silence your song

COLUMN Appreciate the power of music, even if you have no pitch,
tone

The rude awakening came after a spring trip to the Grand Canyon
when I was in third grade. Back home in California, my dad popped
the video of our vacation into the VCR. There we were, the Klein
family in all our 1986 glory – hiking the rust-colored trails,
petting a friendly burro, my sister and I side by side in running
shorts and knee socks.

And then there I was, singing my eight-year-old lungs out
against a postcard-worthy backdrop of craggy cliffs and
sunset-draped canyon walls. It was a song I’d composed myself,
something very "We Are the World"-ish, and I was pretending that I
was a child star doing my own benefit concert. It all seemed very
glamorous at the time and who was to say that a big time Hollywood
agent wasn’t lurking behind a donkey, waiting to discover me?

But watching myself – and more importantly, listening to myself
– the cold, horrible light of truth flashed blindingly, irrevocably
across my life.

I couldn’t sing.

It’s interesting that we say that – "I can’t sing." I’m not
mute. Lord knows I have lungs. I can belt it out so they’ll hear me
on the other side of the canyon, as long as you aren’t picky about
things like pitch. But if someone can’t carry a tune (or has two
left feet, or is lousy with a brush), we say they can’t sing (or
dance, or paint).

I once saw a television survey in which a reporter asked a room
full of kindergartners to raise their hands if they could do any of
the above activities. Without hesitation, every pudgy fist hand
shot up in the air. Then the reporter asked a group of adults the
same questions. Now a few shy hands shrugged sheepishly upward.
Those who were good were only reluctantly so and those who were bad
said, in essence, "I won’t even try."

Part of growing up is discovering what your talents are and the
corollary to this is, of course, discovering what they’re not. And
when you suck at something you love, it hurts.

Before my innocence was so painfully smashed across a television
screen, I’d sung loud and clear at the campfire programs. At age
four, I’d been so proud that I knew every verse to "Clementine"
that I wanted to make sure others heard the genius of its lyrics.
They heard all right. And they laughed. Until the Grand Canyon
wake-up call, I’d assumed they were amazed at my knowledge of the
song.

Realizing I had the voice of a drowning chicken was perhaps a
gateway to adolescence. What was once cute was suddenly just
obnoxious. What was fun was now encouraged only if you showed
"potential." Every imperfection became fodder for playground
meanness.

In fourth grade, my best friend informed me I was saying the
pledge of allegiance off key. After that, I kept quiet. I didn’t
sing outside of the house, though I continued to be Ethel Merman’s
evil twin when I was alone. I was a little quieter even on the
talking end of things, because I knew that what came out of my
mouth wasn’t always something people wanted to hear.

Yet I still had a trace of stage diva in me and I signed up for
drama when I entered high school. Fall play? A breeze. Sure, I had
no lines, but I was one of four freshman to even make the cast,
thanks to an elite group of seniors who hogged all the good parts.
In class I let monologues roll off my tongue and did a flawless
side aerial, dressed in rags and pigtails, when we lip synced to
"Hard Knock Life."

After school I took dance lessons at Act III in Redondo Beach,
now a plumbing supply store (if that’s not a metaphor for my short
performing career, I don’t know what is). I wasn’t a natural, but I
was flexible and could do a mean pirouette.

Then they announced tryouts for the Mira Costa High School
spring musical. "Cabaret." Lots of dancing, great characters. And,
damnit, 17 beautiful songs.

No way was I triple threat. Not even close. And unless someone
decided to launch an all-rap musical, or Hollywood decided to
resurrect the silent era, no one was going to care if I could act
and dance.

My parents didn’t want to see their baby’s heart broken (or hear
their baby’s voice screech along with the radio one more day), so
they agreed to singing lessons. The very nice woman at Torrance’s
Professional School for the Arts said, "Everyone can sing."

A lot of people say this. They are usually people with clear
voices and a range of more than three notes. But I tried to believe
her in all her Sister Maria kindness. It was technically a musical
theater class, not a voice lesson, so presentation was big. I
stepped up to the small stage and smiled at my encouraging
classmates.

"My name is Cheryl Klein and I’m going to be singing ‘Don’t Tell
Mama’ from ‘Cabaret.’"

I straightened up. I nodded at the accompanist. I counted the
opening chords in my head.

And then I melted into the puddle of talentless slime I knew I
was. "I can’t do this!" I moaned. I was that whiny girl in the
stage version of "A Chorus Line," not Liza Minelli’s coy Sally
Bowles.

It turns out I could. Sort of. I did not make the spring
musical. I didn’t even get a call back, although the choreographer
did ask me my name during the dance audition. But on the last day
of our musical theater class, the day the studio was lined with
folding chairs and packed with relatives giddy from watery Kool
Aide and short bread cookies from the lobby, I walked – strode,
even – up to the stage and said, "My name is Cheryl Klein and I’m
going to be singing ‘Don’t Tell Mama’ from ‘Cabaret.’"

This time I kept going. The notes were a little shaky, but for
the most part, they were the right ones. I let my lungs do their
thing and even threw in a daintily suggestive shoulder movement as
I sang, ‘… though I’m still as pure as mountain snoooowwww."

I’d like to say that all my junior high paranoia melted away,
that I was one of those underdog Funny Girls who captures the
audience not with her voice but with her charisma. But to tell you
the truth, I was a little too self-aware for any overriding
charisma. To this day, "Don’t Tell Mama" is the only song I’ve sung
in front of an audience.

And I’m a little bitter that singing is such an integral part of
our culture. It’s okay for Prince Eric to fall in love with the
little mermaid for her beautiful voice, but if he’d lusted after
what was behind her sea-shell bra, we’d call him a pig. Really,
they’re both just a product of genes.

Music is what brings people together, in musicals, yes, but even
in real life it drowned out the howling prairie as pioneers sang
folk songs, it pumps people up at summer camp, it woos lovers, it
praises God. And to be told you’re not a part of that leaves quite
a void.

But I’m getting there. I sing loudly and shamelessly in my car
which is why I don’t care that it takes 20 minutes to get from lot
six to Westwood Boulevard.

Two summers ago my co-counselor and I whispered lullabies to a
worried eight-year-old in the silent sleeping heat of a UniCamp
night. My voice was croaky with exhaustion and after a week away
from my CD player, the only song that came to mind was "America the
Beautiful." So I sang it. And it was beautiful.

The eight-year-old in question, herself a much better vocalist
than I will ever be, peered up at me through heavy eyelids. Earlier
that day she’d hit and fought and cried. But in the words of
"Little Shop’s" Seymour, "Things were bad, but now they’re
okay."

No, not everyone can sing. But everyone should.

Klein is a third year American literature and culture major. She
hopes that one day the tonally-challenged will receive their due on
Broadway.