Singarella

“She has a natural, God given voice," said Mrs. Koganova, an old music teacher, who gave her first music lessons to my mother and her brothers. That little compliment sounded great to me at that time, I was nine years old. In a few years, I realized what kind of "life sentence" she really passed. Piano lessons and hours of practice; classes of music theory, ear training, and solfeggio; choir practices and even dance classes, and all of this after school.
Looking back on it, it was mostly fun, until I heard the words "exam", "recital" or "concert" and then everything started to shake. My hands were barely manageable during those moments; they were jumping so far away from the keyboard that it was hard to bring them back down in time for the next chord. With vocal performances it was not much better, either. I exhibited a new type of vibrato that never showed up in the practice room, and I developed recital hall claustrophobia.

But then one day recently, my uncle asked me to join his new Klezmer band as a lead vocalist, and to sing at the "Piccolo Spoleto Israel at 50 Celebration." So we listened to dozens of Jewish music tapes, I learned Yiddish in a hurry, experimented by trial and error, rehearsed for three weeks, and performed on Marion Square. Something magical happened - my claustrophobia was gone since there were no walls, My voice did not shake, since there were no expert judges in the audience. The God-given gift was back, since I had fun singing the music that actually meant something to me. Our band was a one hit wonder that played only two gigs, but it brought me back on the path, to the fun, and to the spiritual journey that music should be.

I try to find at least one hour a week to look for new material, so I can attempt to resurrect our family band this summer. Each step in this process has its own pleasures and pains. First I pick a songbook from my now quite extensive library, and flip through it. I read the translations of the song. This activity resembles time travel. The songs transport me to European and American Shtetles, and Ghettos far away and long ago and I begin to see characters and settings, that have nothing and everything in common with me today. The second step is to play a few songs I have picked. This is also a journey. If the person who found this melody at a wedding or a Sabbath so long ago was actually good at notating it, then the sheet music will come alive with the eternal sorrow of God's people, and their enormous joy of still being one unbreakable nation. What does this song mean to me? What does it say to me as a Jewish singer, as an American woman of today, as an immigrant of yesterday, as a Jewish woman of tomorrow? And who am I tomorrow? What am I tomorrow?
Then, the tedious work begins. I try to play the accompaniment, sing it on a vowel, analyze the harmonic structure of a piece, and so on. In other words I become a professional singer. It is during this work that I let go of the "here" and "now." I transcend into a fifth dimension of experiment and thought. It is governed by its own set of laws, which sound and look insane to an outsider.
Eventually in an hour or two the working process brings me to that magic-breaking arts - manager's question - At what events can this be performed, and who is my audience?
That question works like the anachronism of the modern dime in the play-writer's hand in the movie "Somewhere in Time." I don't have an audience; there aren't enough young Jews in this city to have even two weddings a year. I don't have a band, my house is a mess and most of all, and my homework is not finished. So I close the piano, and go back to my computer, and back to 2001, until the next time, whenever it may be.
2001