Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and a Democrat was governor, Jim Carrier and I sat on my front porch one evening and serenaded the neighborhood, accompanying ourselves on banjo and guitar.
As I recall, in a bit of musicians' light-hearted humor, we dedicated one song to Gov. Dick Kneip, my neighbor across the street to the west. I have no idea what song it was, but we were playing and singing mostly bluegrass stuff, "Fox on the Run'' and other such tunes. Carrier, a former AP writer, was a wizard - still is, I'm sure - on bluegrass banjo and had a mellow singing voice. I did a passable job on 12-string guitar - unless the song required a heavy dose of hand speed - and had a voice suitable for writing newspaper columns.
The image of us sitting on the porch picking and grinning came to mind as I thought of the ways we - or maybe I - let ourselves be made to believe we lack talent or skill in certain areas. A casual word or a disapproving look (or one interpreted as disapproving) can make folks like me terribly self-conscious about doing things we dearly love to do.
I know my voice isn't great. It's nasal and thin, with a limited range. Besides, I'm as turned into myself as a corkscrew, and I absolutely hate the thought that people might be judging me in a negative way. That sounds self-absorbed, I suppose, but it just means I've allowed others to affect some of the things I do and how I feel doing them.
I'm the guy, you'll remember, who refused to go out for chorus in high school because I heard the music teacher telling my dad that I'd be singing solos by the end of freshman year. That comment came as they picked sweet corn the summer before my freshman year. I was walking behind them with a gunny sack of roasting ears over my shoulder. I didn't say a word, but I knew I wasn't going to be in chorus when school opened in the fall.
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The thing is, I love to sing. Always have. From the first time I heard Carl Perkins do "Matchbox'' and Bill Haley do "Rock Around the Clock,'' I've loved to sing. And that was just fine when I was alone on a tractor in the middle of 180-acres of alfalfa or bouncing across a pasture in a pickup with the windows rolled down and 60 or 80 head of Hereford cattle to, um, serenade.
In public? Not as enthusiastic, especially if I thought people were actually listening.
Oh, sure. I could be a singer in the "Sensational Standbys.'' I was one of four guys making music for a dance crowd, and they just wanted a steady beat and a song they recognized. Besides, we were mostly a cover band, and when I was singing, I was Elvis or Dion or Buddy Holly or Waylon or Johnny Cash or Hank Senior. It wasn't really me. As Conway Twitty said, "It's Only Make Believe.''
I agreed once to sing at a friend's wedding, and I almost passed out from nerves. For some reason, that was going to be me singing, and it needed to be good. With the band, it wasn't me and it didn't have to be great, just danceable.
I'll never forget the time a guy at a dance sat right up front and kept telling me all the stuff I was doing wrong, like "Don't eat the mike, dude.'' I knew he was probably half drunk. We had turned him down when he asked to sing with us (mostly because he was half drunk). He was a jerk. But he ruined my night. The bass player liked it. He reminded me of it every dance job after that. That's one reason I'll never forget it.
Our lead player tried to help, saying, "If he's so talented, why's he sitting out there while we're up here getting paid?'' It helped, but not much.
These days, I don't worry whether people like my singing. Of course, I haven't played a dance or done a wedding for 20 years.
