Falling backwards
How singing can feel like a risk but is worth it
Have you ever done that thing where you shut your eyes and let yourself fall backwards, hopefully into the arms of someone waiting (and willing) to catch you?
It’s mildly terrifying, and regardless of how well you know the person standing behind you, it can still feel like an enormous risk.
This feeling is similar to how it can be when you first open your mouth to sing all by yourself. There’s no longer any safety in numbers, no opportunity to just mouth the words or drift to the back of the crowd. Instead, you open your mouth and even before you sing that first note you feel a swirling mix of terror, embarrassment, shame, hope, excitement and, hopefully, pure joy, all at once.
The embarrassing and shameful bits of it, while entirely unwarranted, are sadly almost inevitable, seeing as we seem to have been conditioned to think that the ability to sing is something only granted to those special few, and that for everyone else not being able to sing is the default position. Not true, I tell you, and don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise!
That first time, it can also feel like you’re not only about to open your mouth but also slice yourself open to reveal every messy bit of you for all the world to see. But while I think there is a very strong connection between our emotions and singing and what’s inside, there’s usually no blood and guts involved.
The truth is that singing will always feel personal and leave you feeling a little bit vulnerable. But that’s part of the beauty of it and what makes it feel so real. Because you’re not just singing. You’re creating a new world of your own making. Even if the melody has been created by someone else it’s you creating the sound, you bringing the notes to life in a way that no one else can, you bringing the emotion and everything else.
And it doesn’t matter how good or bad you think you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re in your bedroom with a blanket over your head or standing on a stage, if you’re belting it out or singing so quietly no one else can hear you. What matters is the act of doing it, of breathing life into the notes no matter how many times they’ve been sung before, and of reclaiming not only your voice but your absolute right to use it and enjoy doing so.
And besides all that, there’s the immense satisfaction that comes from having taken the risk and survived to tell (or sing) of it another day. The feeling of taking a risk never completely disappears, I’ve discovered, even after many years of singing. But while I’ve never really thought of myself as a risk-taker I realise that when it comes to singing, that’s exactly what I am and I love it.
As for singing and falling backwards at the same time? Now there’s a thought. Maybe I’ll suggest it to some of my students, see what they say.
I promise to catch them.
Dancing the night away
On the last Saturday in November I go to bed very early, wake up at midnight, and then go to the ball.
I’m allowed to stay up late, unlike Cinderella, and am in no danger of having my ride home turn into a pumpkin. Instead, I sing from 2am to 5am with a jazz big band while people dance, and it is glorious.
The Polyball is the oldest ball in Europe and takes place at the ETH Zurich in Switzerland, otherwise known as the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology Zürich.
Every year, almost ten thousand people converge from 7pm to dance the night away. And from my vantage point up on the stage I watch as they twirl and stomp and float and kick their heels up until morning.
Cinderella would have loved it.
(Photo of me wearing or not wearing glass slippers…you’ll never know)
And this is what we sound like: