Music is the language of the human race. From classical to metal and everything in between, every musical genre moves the soul, provokes emotions, and excites and elevates the human spirit. Great musical scores infuse films, plays, and ballets with such profound emotion that one can immediately recall the associated experience; Romeo and Juliet, the Nutcracker, Harry Potter. Musical masterpieces created by Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, and John Williams will live with us forever because the music transcends differences and unites the human race; it brings out the best in who we are, filling us with unrelenting joy, passion, and ecstasy and at times fear, angst, and sorrow. Music inculcates humanity with our emotional truths.
When I was a little girl my aunt would play vinyl records in the afternoon while cooking dinner; classical music, rock ‘n roll, and lots of things in between. That’s where my love affair with music started. Classical music soothed me, rock moved me. It was the 70’s and there was no shortage of groovin’ beats to choose from. But my interest in music never really extended beyond listening until one afternoon this past November.
Nora Jones was on in the car- God how she inspires me! Her voice, that spellbinding sound, fills my soul with such fervor- that I decided I wanted to learn how to sing. The thought of doing so was almost laughable and I nearly dismissed it. But then I reasoned, You only live once. What’s the harm in trying? Maybe if someone taught me how to sing, I could do it.
A week later I was standing face to face with my newest mentor, a six-foot tall opera singer with a charming smile and a very hip hair cut. I couldn’t tell how old he was but I guessed we were roughly the same age. He was soft spoken, gentle, and kind.
The lesson started where all new students do, at the beginning; breathing, humming, scales. I was nervous, holding my breath, clenching my teeth. “Breathe. Relax,” he repeated about fifty times. But I couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t coming naturally. I focused on my breathing, told myself to relax, and put my fingers on my jaw so I remembered to open it. Thirty minutes passed. I was mentally fatigued, my abs tired, and my jaw appeared to be wired shut.
Patiently, my instructor guided me and eventually the notes started to come. Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi. My, my, my, my, my. I bent over while singing to compress my diaphragm and suddenly notes emanated from a deeper place and in a much louder voice. I could hardly believe my ears, Was that really me? Wow! We continued to move through scales and I started to get the hang of it by the time the hour ended. My instructor seemed satisfied and I was elated, so much so that I spontaneously gave him a hug when I said goodbye. He seemed surprised but rolled with it so I wouldn’t feel stupid, not that I could have; I was in heaven! I was finally finding my voice.
When I was a little girl my aunt would play vinyl records in the afternoon while cooking dinner; classical music, rock ‘n roll, and lots of things in between. That’s where my love affair with music started. Classical music soothed me, rock moved me. It was the 70’s and there was no shortage of groovin’ beats to choose from. But my interest in music never really extended beyond listening until one afternoon this past November.
Nora Jones was on in the car- God how she inspires me! Her voice, that spellbinding sound, fills my soul with such fervor- that I decided I wanted to learn how to sing. The thought of doing so was almost laughable and I nearly dismissed it. But then I reasoned, You only live once. What’s the harm in trying? Maybe if someone taught me how to sing, I could do it.
A week later I was standing face to face with my newest mentor, a six-foot tall opera singer with a charming smile and a very hip hair cut. I couldn’t tell how old he was but I guessed we were roughly the same age. He was soft spoken, gentle, and kind.
The lesson started where all new students do, at the beginning; breathing, humming, scales. I was nervous, holding my breath, clenching my teeth. “Breathe. Relax,” he repeated about fifty times. But I couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t coming naturally. I focused on my breathing, told myself to relax, and put my fingers on my jaw so I remembered to open it. Thirty minutes passed. I was mentally fatigued, my abs tired, and my jaw appeared to be wired shut.
Patiently, my instructor guided me and eventually the notes started to come. Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi. My, my, my, my, my. I bent over while singing to compress my diaphragm and suddenly notes emanated from a deeper place and in a much louder voice. I could hardly believe my ears, Was that really me? Wow! We continued to move through scales and I started to get the hang of it by the time the hour ended. My instructor seemed satisfied and I was elated, so much so that I spontaneously gave him a hug when I said goodbye. He seemed surprised but rolled with it so I wouldn’t feel stupid, not that I could have; I was in heaven! I was finally finding my voice.
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