The Fine Art of Singing

There it is—that first note. That first note is about to erupt from your larynx. You ready yourself; your diaphragm, your lungs, and your voice. Your voice is about to arise from the depths of submersion. You inhale, feeling your lungs inflate as they convert air into carbon dioxide. You feel your ribcage expand as it makes room for the now-entering oxygen. Once you’re prepared to exhale, the note arises from your larynx as you close your eyes and release your voice from its cage. You’re singing. Singing is so much more than a mixture of notes harmoniously filling the nearby air. If our ears were eyes; the singing voice, especially one that is well-controlled and harmonious, would be a rainbow. Contrarily, arbitrary talking tones would be the gray. I’m not usually a singer—I don’t get up in front of people and sing. Fact be known, I rarely let anyone even hear me singing. As a child, I sang constantly. However, when I would get praised for singing, it’s almost as if it ruined the fun of singing. I honestly like my own singing voice, as conceited as that may sound. But I feel as though my receiving attention for singing took away the fact that I was singing to express myself. I didn’t want to be told that I sang beautifully. I sing to release, not to be judged and commented on. Singing is a release—as if the demands of the workday or school day relinquish their grip in the presence of a voice that is melodiously moving up and down to corresponding music. Even singing a cappella—that can be a release. Just because there is no music does not mean that there can be no song. A voice that can break the silence of arbitrary talking tones (even more so, a voice that can do it in a way that is pleasing to the ear) is a voice that can stop time. Think about it; you’re in your car, and you start the engine. You have shed the skin of “student”, “husband”, “wife”, “employee”, etc. and you are now a completely separate being. You

navigate through your phone to find Apple Music, Spotify, etc. (because, let’s face it, it’s rare to listen to the radio anymore) and peck away at the keyboard in search of that one song—that song that you know you can let your voice run wild to. You can’t wait to drive mindlessly (although simultaneously aware) down the interstate, highway, and backroads and raise your voice freely and without discretion. You’re by yourself, you aren’t even singing to anyone or for anyone. You’re singing for you—to let your inner celebrity of choice live vicariously through you—just for a moment in time. No one expects anything from you. You’re free of the weight. Your identity is being transported to your house, but it is not with you at this very moment. It’s as if you are truly experiencing a George Bailey moment from It’s a Wonderful Life! You are no one—but not in a way that you are insignificant to the world. You are no one in the sense that the “you” that you portray to the world ceases to exist when you release the caged beast that is your pent-up voice. In the moment that your larynx is your most powerful and relevant body part (aside from your hands and feet which must maintain responsibility when operating a vehicle), you are simply a being with a voice. Your voice is your identity. That pure, euphoric satisfaction of raising your voice to a zenith height to hit that impossible “only Mariah Carey can hit that” note is ever present. But we haven’t mentioned the unmentionable. It has all been euphoria, a release up until now. We have not mentioned the equivalent of poison to a voice that longs to escape from the confines of the larynx. It is the epitome of enslavement to a vocalist— laryngitis.

Laryngitis is the Achilles Heel of a voice. That beautiful string of notes waiting to be sung will be sorely disappointed when all that can be let out is the choked shriek of a weakened voice. Laryngitis—the thing that imprisons and inhibits the voice—runs rampant and takes captive the one who wishes to shed their own skin through the act of singing. You’ve been sick, it’s some kind of upper respiratory infection. The stuffy nose isn’t great, but it’s bearable. The coughing—annoying, but you’ll muddle through. The headaches are a pain, quite literally, but they aren’t migraines, so you can manage. But the sore throat, that is your worst enemy. That is the bane of your existence. You cannot seem to overlook that lingering laryngitis that makes you sound like a chain smoker. It inhibits your voice that wants to fly to the height of Mount Kilimanjaro and occasionally fly down to earth when it’s time to mingle with the lower notes. When I can’t sing, I might as well be mute entirely. If I can’t talk, it’s bad enough—but not being able to sing, that makes me feel like a fly trapped in a jar—aimlessly flying around and bumping into walls that restrict me and seem to be closing in. I’m chatty enough as it is, and it drives me insane when I can barely talk. But I can live with it. But the feeling of not being able to sing is equal to the thoughts of a prisoner anxiously awaited to be released of his sentence—longing to be free. My voice, or lack thereof, is desperately awaiting to be liberated. There is something so beautiful and freeing when I sing that, if I know that singing is something that is out of reach for me, it depresses me immensely. The beauty of singing is that you can make it sound gritty when you’re angry, you can make it gentle and solemn when you’re sad, you can make it bold and full of vivacity when you’re excited and happy. When you listen to an angsty teen anthem from the nineties, you can channel that grittiness of Kurt Cobain. When you listen to a soft, somber ballad and reflect on

what is making you sad, you can channel the solemness, yet incredible vocal strength of Adele. And when you listen to an energetic party song when you’re happy and excited, you can channel the phenomenal vocal range of Ariana Grande. Singing can encompass and inflict every emotion while simultaneously inducing a numbness to the world, which could hypothetically explain the birth of so many genres of music. But, regardless of origin of genres, the fine art of singing is something that cannot be matched.