......we are still writing our own stories:
This Is Your Life (and How You Tell It)
By BENEDICT CAREY
Published: May 22, 2007
The way people talk about their pasts reveals a lot about how they approach and write the future.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Vocal Technique
When I was a horn player, I looked down my nose at singers. All insane, always onstage, all concerned about their image, all with their hearts on their sleeves and their brains at the shrink’s. Why couldn’t they get over themselves and just start acting like musicians? When would they learn to put aside their emotions and get down to the business of creating music without all that drama?
Now that I have switched over to the dark side, I can duly confirm that singers are all insane. (Note: oboists are insane too, it’s the air pressure.) The emotional life I had observed is essential to becoming a good performer. That is where we find not only our courage but our musicianship. Yet by trying to be in touch with our productive emotions (joy, passion, humor), everything else comes to the surface too. We can use this situation to become mesmerizing performers, whose emotions are universally understandable. Or else it can take on a life of its own….
There’s a girl in my studio who embodies all that can go wrong with a singer. Her name happens to be Amanda (no, really, it’s not me!). In class last night, we watched as she talked herself into an emotional trash heap: her posture grew more rigid; her bony hand flailed about, wiping her eyes and shaking her fist; her mouth opened up like a wound and spewed curses. The girl is clearly manic depressive and needs help. But she is an example of the type that we find frequently among the musical kind, especially singers. There’s always an element of Amanda in us, and if we’re not careful, she comes charging out with a fury.
As I write, I am 10 days away from another big recital. Right now, I can either freak out that I’m not prepared, or enjoy themusic I've chosen. The battle is waged in the practice room, where I run between the two extremes, and wonder how I’ll manage to stay positive. In any case, I thought it might be interesting to write down what I know about singing:
Much of proper singing occurs outside of the mouth or the throat; the rest of the body expands (or contorts) to create resonating space for the sound. When I sing, I expand my lower ribs (much like the kind you eat), and let them stay expanded when I produce a sound. Beneath the skin, which is fortified by a thin layer of flexible aluminum (helps the support), the body is nearly empty. On the inhale, the heart floats up in the oxygen, and steel wires descend from beneath the collar bones to the soul, which sits on top of the pelvic bone. The soul is soft and unassuming, resembling a skinless, boneless chicken breast. The mechanism produces pressure, which my chords use to moderate air supply and produce sound. As long as only the heart and body do the work and the brain doesn't interfere, it all works out beautifully.
So that's how I sing. Now you can do it too.
Now that I have switched over to the dark side, I can duly confirm that singers are all insane. (Note: oboists are insane too, it’s the air pressure.) The emotional life I had observed is essential to becoming a good performer. That is where we find not only our courage but our musicianship. Yet by trying to be in touch with our productive emotions (joy, passion, humor), everything else comes to the surface too. We can use this situation to become mesmerizing performers, whose emotions are universally understandable. Or else it can take on a life of its own….
There’s a girl in my studio who embodies all that can go wrong with a singer. Her name happens to be Amanda (no, really, it’s not me!). In class last night, we watched as she talked herself into an emotional trash heap: her posture grew more rigid; her bony hand flailed about, wiping her eyes and shaking her fist; her mouth opened up like a wound and spewed curses. The girl is clearly manic depressive and needs help. But she is an example of the type that we find frequently among the musical kind, especially singers. There’s always an element of Amanda in us, and if we’re not careful, she comes charging out with a fury.
As I write, I am 10 days away from another big recital. Right now, I can either freak out that I’m not prepared, or enjoy themusic I've chosen. The battle is waged in the practice room, where I run between the two extremes, and wonder how I’ll manage to stay positive. In any case, I thought it might be interesting to write down what I know about singing:
Much of proper singing occurs outside of the mouth or the throat; the rest of the body expands (or contorts) to create resonating space for the sound. When I sing, I expand my lower ribs (much like the kind you eat), and let them stay expanded when I produce a sound. Beneath the skin, which is fortified by a thin layer of flexible aluminum (helps the support), the body is nearly empty. On the inhale, the heart floats up in the oxygen, and steel wires descend from beneath the collar bones to the soul, which sits on top of the pelvic bone. The soul is soft and unassuming, resembling a skinless, boneless chicken breast. The mechanism produces pressure, which my chords use to moderate air supply and produce sound. As long as only the heart and body do the work and the brain doesn't interfere, it all works out beautifully.
So that's how I sing. Now you can do it too.
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