I might have been called many things in life, but never before a “freak of nature.” This was the loud comment offered by an OMAG (Oberlin Music at Grafton) prison choir member after I sang through the first song we would learn together, “Circle of Life” (NOT The Lion King version!). I politely asked him to explain what he meant by his exclamation. Meanwhile, the other residents sat awaiting something…a confrontational moment? a laugh? hurt feelings? my embarrassment?
The choir member continued, “Where did you find them notes to sing? You just looked at the paper [the score], and you started. It’s like you just pulled those notes out of your ear, out of your head.” Hmm…I needed to know a bit more. I asked if he could sing a song or part of a song at that very moment. His body retreated somewhat, so I sensed a bit of discomfort. I assured him that he didn’t need to sing by himself for us. Still, could he? He nodded his head “yes.” I told him that I had just done the same thing: I knew the song and sang it. Another singer noted that just as we think words in our minds, we can remember and sing melodies and whole songs in our heads. Several other singers told me they wanted to learn to do what I had just done. I told them that it takes time and practice. Another resident reminded the others that some people are born with “that perfect pitch thing.” I told them that I had developed a strong sense of relative pitch.
Then came a bit of frustration. “We can’t do what you do.” “You have talent that we don’t.” “You have more training than we do.” I asked one singer what his talent was. He quickly stated that he was a carpenter, and I told him I could perhaps learn to do some things involving carpentry, but that I had never spent the time to learn. Also he was probably more innately talented than I was. The guys were not convinced. So, how was I going to reel in this conversation?
I asked the singers if everyone could hear out of both ears. They all said or nodded “yes.” Then, I pulled out my hearing aid and dangled it in front of my face. I told them that they brought two ears to their singing, while I brought one and a slight portion of another. The room went silent. One person said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” I told them that I didn’t seek sympathy, but I did want them to know that we were all bringing our own unique gifts to the choir. The conversation turned to discussing “glasses that are half empty or half full” and “perspective.” Then came the profound statement from one singer who had yet to speak in the rehearsal: “If you can’t envision the sound in your head, you can’t sing it. Just like if you can’t see yourself changing, you won’t. It’s the perspective you hold.”
With that, we learned the song, and there was nothing freaky about it.
Singing Behind Bars 