Please Don't Sing.

I can still hear. A little.

Please Don't Sing

Don't let the title of this little piece get you. It may not apply to you at all, because maybe you're a good singer, although the odds are against it. And since I live alone, that means I don't live with you, whoever you may be. So if you want to cut loose and yodel in your shower, I couldn't care less. As a matter of fact, that's probably a good place, 'cause I won't be there, and better yet, you'll be indoors.

You see, most of us have some kind of singing potential, however faint. Problem is, nobody is consistent, even if they crank up the volume and always give it their best shot. I've always enjoyed Rod Stewart's music, although his lyrics, style and accompaniment are the reasons why. If not for those things, people would probably realize that the man can't sing for shit. But let's face it, few people have such lyrics, even fewer have that kind of kick-ass accompaniment, and no one else, has his style.

Now in making the following statement I am not making reference to great classical music, but I am making reference to every damn thing else that's considered music. A good recorded song is a bit like a Playboy centerfold. That's because they do it over until they get it right, they edit out boo-boos and essentially, airbrush it into shape. So you're hearing the best it can be. On occasion a band will do as well in live performance, but usually a significant portion of the crowd's appreciation is because they're in a partying mood, are happy to be in this great band's presence, and maybe too, it's the doobie that's being passed down the row. It happens a lot, I've seen it. I didn't inhale.

You believed Clinton, didn't you?

On the one hand I support the freedom of self-expression. But when someone is trapped in an office with another, that someone really screws up their chances of peaceful and harmonious co-existence by singing. Let's just call the unknown person who's obnoxious enough to do this, “Zelda”.

The Zelda I know is physically huge. Self-indulgent? Nah, 'course not. But the many medical maladies she suffers with, everybody who knows her, knows all about. I know she hopes she'll get really sick again soon, because during that time, it'll be all about Zelda.

And Zelda thinks I hate music. Nothing could be further from the truth. I really love good music of just about every kind. Classical, country, and all rock, soft, hard, acid, head-banger and dub-step. What I do not like, is Zelda's voice trying to stay with it. It's strident, off-key and selfishly jammed into my head while I'm trying to think. So I ask her to turn it down, because if it's low enough, she can hear herself and that often stops it. Not all the time, cuss it. Zelda, you just can't sing, and I hate your trying. No amount of “air-brushing” could ever fix it up and make it sound good, either.

There lived a woman, not that long ago, whose voice was like that of an angel. Her name was Karen Carpenter. I know little about what happened to her, because I don't want to know, but I do know that she's the one woman I never met that I believe I may have actually loved, even though she looked disturbingly like her brother. Or maybe he looked disturbingly like her. But no one at all is ever right all of the time, and Karen sang, quite beautifully, “Don't worry that it's not good enough, for anyone else to hear; just sing, sing a song.” I've had to respectfully disagree. Probably she didn't write it.

Zelda: “Bayyybee I love you, baybee I love you, baybee I looove you...”

I'm not going to completely waste a good rant. For those who haven't read about him before, Herman is my inner writer. He thinks he controls me. And Herman, this piece is a waste of ink. Nobody gives a damn about this. And we can't sing either. Next you'll have people believing we shouldn't write.

You're about half nuts, you know that?

Go to hell, Herman.

After you.

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