The Power Of Positivity and Song

I get so much more than I give when it comes to my singing workshops.

Coming out of the SoulTrain group last night, I drove home as high as a kite with complicated harmonies chasing each other in my head all the way down the motorway.

This year, the numbers have gone up to 14, and we have some more experienced singers who are good readers in each section. They are able to help the less experienced (my choir is open to all levels of proficiency!). The result is that we are able to tackle more ambitious arrangements and twiddle with detail in a satisfying way. I like to write each each arrangement especially for them and we usually do it in situ, together, so that they can see it evolve. They astound me with their ability to pronounce English so well. There are quite a lot of teachers lurking in there, I think.

Tonight it is the turn of the individuals for vocal coaching. I suggest songs for them to learn, but they also come up with their own, which vary in their suitability for their experience, sometimes quite dramatically! There is something about the immediacy of self expression in the voice which combines extreme exposure and vulnerability with great feelings of achievement when it works out well. The fact that they adore the song they have chosen gives that energy to overcome the technical obstacles (with a bit of help...)

I am missing my autistic musicians, but they are too much for me at the moment. The hospital is thinking about replacing me, so what will be will be.

I am in a count my blessings sort of mood today. And they are many...

If only I could get the midi to work properly on my new shiny sound card aargh

Back into the "swing" of it...

I make no apology for my absence. A girl can only do so much.

Christmas shot past me in a blur of sheet music in preparation for my Cole Porter workshop. All I need now is for some students to actually turn up for it. I have a nasty feeling that I might be the only singer in France whose heart burns with a fiery longing to sing as much of him as possible. He had this terrible habit of writing vast quantities of witty lyrics…in English. So you can see how this might be off putting to the francophone.

Still, at least his lyrics are relatively clean cut, due to the era in which they were written.

Frank Zappa is another story. The conservatoire have proposed a collaboration with our school for a performance of some of his many works… and it falls to me to explain to my adolescent girl teenagers what they are actually singing about. I am pleased to say that my French vocabulary is not always up to it…

News from the autistic musicians is mixed. The new boys are settling in well. There is a lot of swaying in time to the music, and one of them actually claps really well in rhythm. The boy who looked like he might want to hit me with the toy microphone still salivates like the Niagra falls but has ceased to pose a danger to the electrical keyboard. He likes to sit underneath it with his head jammed against the speaker to enjoy the vibrations, and so gravity is now on my side.

The overexcited Boy who just says “oui” has been hospitalised since Christmas. He has been very agitated and shouts all the time. They are trying to get his medication balanced, but his unhappiness is thought to be linked to his need for a placement in an adult establishment and there doesn’t seem to be one available anywhere. He is after all a young adult at the age of 23…

I miss him horribly. He was definitely the most musical of them all.

The jazz weekend of delight.

What a wonderful weekend!

I would like to thank the 23 singing students who gave their hearts and souls this weekend and bravely sang throwing caution to the winds. Even on their own from time to time...

Singing is a very personal way of expressing oneself, and improvising is a very risky business. Put the two together and the risks of humiliation can be seen as overwhelming. They all gave it everything they had, which is the best way to get a lot back.

I hope I will see them again soon.

I came back on Sunday as high as a kite but exhausted.

Down to earth today, I am off to the dentist...

Neck misery...

Another Saturday, but not a quiet one. An unquiet one.

It is mother's day tomorrow in France.

And where will I be? Lying pampered in bed whilst my breakfast is brought to me, croissants wrapped in bright white linen, with a glass of champagne and orange juice bubbling gently in the morning sunlight, and the delicious smell of coffee wafting up the gleaming polished wooden staircase?

No, I shall be herding anxious singers onto the enormous stage of the booming salle Robien (terrible acoustics, like a cathedral on acid), for their end of year performance.

I shall be singing, with the other music teachers, a song which we have never rehearsed together, Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade, in a key which was not intended for the human voice ( but for a brass section!) in a tempo as yet unspecified. I discovered this yesterday.

There will be no soundcheck...

Four hundred students will be performing and it will last from 3 pm to 9 pm...or maybe a bit longer.

We are on last!

But I must be there before the show begins!

But this fades to insignificance compared to the bite wound on Porridge's neck from the nasty doberman.

Gaily went we to the vets on Monday to be unstapled. The wound looked clean and seemed to be mending nicely. However there was a large wobbly lump behind it, seemingly full of fluid. It was not infected and the vet pierced it and started squeezing. She is now on yet more antibiotics and antiinflammation drugs. The lump has swollen again to uncomfortable proportions, and the vet told me this morning to find something sharp and sterile and set to myself, here at home.

I am not looking forward to this...wish me luck!

Karaoke Queens

Friday night found me and Darling D at a karaoke night.
And no, we don't do it regularly, it was our first time.
And yes, for some reason we felt slightly embarassed and guilty... like applying to audition for the X factor. We hoped no one saw us going in there.

It was in the bar where there had been a small altercation on the day of our last visit . But I had forgotten all about that until we were about to go in.

Our feelings were mixed when we found the place deserted. But little by little the would-be performers trickled in... and none of them were the man with the bloody lip. But I suppose it would have healed by now...

And then we were off. People were looking through enormous menus, and scribbling their song choices on bits of paper, which were then given to the bar patron. He called out a name and then the first singer approached and grabbed the microphone. There was a large screen with a digital girl dancing on it, the music started and the words crawled across the screen like slugs. A pattern was set for the rest of the evening. The song choice was invariably a "variety" slow ballad of the Celine Dion type. The voices were generally OK and then... they would do something painful...often totally without warning, but usually when the melody rose to unscalable heights and they didnt have the correct climbing equipment.

Darling D and I kicked off together with a quick Yesterday in close harmony. Then she broke the mould and sang a series of fast French songs which seemed to be mainly about chocolate and bananas. I growled my way through a quick I cant get no satisfaction, Mick Jagger's voice being slightly lower than mine...my balls havent dropped? I suppose I didnt have the right equipment either. The oddest part of it all was having your back to the public while singing in order to look at the words. I dont know if that is what usually happens in Karaoke bars, but I expect you will all be too embarassed to tell me if you do know.
We did have fun and enjoyed the atmosphere..sort of. There was just something a bit strange about it that I couldnt quite define.

Drummer boy dropped by on Saturday and I asked him how he and the other students were coping with the cooking and housework.
No, they dont use rotas, he said. For cooking they just try to remember who hasnt cooked for a long time and make them do it. Washing up was completely different though. That is decided by a short hand of poker.
As he left to drive back, he asked me whether I had a clean washing up sponge to spare. He must have lost the last hand , I reckon...