Singing and Belling

 

First voice lesson in three weeks today.  Insert sound of rusty gate here.  Oh dear.  I know I went for several months without a teacher telling me what to do and how to do it* between Blondel and Nadia** but I really noticed reverting this time.  The (written) notes I had (finally) begun taking during my lesson became mere silly words on a page again*** and I was singing like any other plebeian/rusty gate.  One of the purposes—at least for me—of any lessons is to keep the student up to the mark;  even if you don't need the teaching per se you know you're going to have to face your teacher.  I find however that I am absolutely dependent on Nadia† to do anything beyond merely learning the notes, and since I'm mostly singing folk songs at the moment†† that means . . . dependent.  So I go in there and she tells me to drop my jaw and straighten my spine and suddenly I sound about 156% better than I did warming up at home this morning, or for the last three weeks.  How does she do that?  And when do I start being able to do some of it for myself?

            And then . . . there were handbells.  It's a long story, made longer by the fact that all three of the principals—Niall, Wild Robert, and I—are space cadets, in each our different ways.  Anyway, Colin is away on a ringing tour, so there is no Colin tower practise tonight, and I had the bright idea to hook Wild Robert into some handbells since I'd be out there anyway having a voice lesson with his sister, which only left Niall, who you can pretty well assume will cross burning abysses and tie knots in the necks of hydras to ring some unscheduled handbells.  In practise this meant that I went from one terrifying brain-melt activity to another with no break.  If we do this again I want a break.  Fifteen minutes and some nice soothing yarn.  Gaaah. 

             It was worth it though.  We rang Cambridge.  And it was even worth ringing horrible Cambridge watching Wild Robert go wrong.  It does fascinate me, these ringing whizzes, Colin and Wild Robert, struggling with handbells:  Wild Robert can keep five people who don't know how to ring Grandsire doubles††† ringing Grandsire in the tower—I should know, it's how I learnt Grandsire doubles—but he has to think about it, ringing a mere two handbells.  Granted Cambridge minor is a much grislier challenge than Grandsire doubles . . . even so.  Gods are not supposed to have weaknesses:  gods are not supposed to perform miracles on a sliding scale, you know?  You're either frelling omnipotent or you aren't.  Heh heh heh heh.  Mind you, my Cambridge is a wretched limping discordant thing, but then I'm performing my own little miracle by ringing it at all.  Poor Niall with two of us going walkabout on him was failing to keep order . . . but I was actually enjoying being in the middle of the fray instead of the heavy drag on the end of the line holding everyone else back. 

             We have a rematch on Thursday.  I wonder if there's any chance of ensnaring Wild Robert into coming to our Thursday handbells after Colin gets home?  Then we could ring major again.  It's just that Wild Robert has always been very resistant to handbells . . . I'm afraid to push it for fear whatever it is deluding him into this uncharacteristic interest will go away again. . . .     

* * *

* One of Nadia's profusion of virtues is that she's another horsey girl.  Although she owned her own horse when she was a teenager, and I therefore hate her.  But all those insane, frequently counter-intuitive metaphors for riding are therefore available for the insane, frequently counter-intuitive business of singing.  There are more parallels than you might think—any of you out there who don't have experience of both singing and riding—between the voice you're trying to sing with and the horse you're trying to ride.  You may have some inkling of its talent and its temper, but it will react in unexpected and frequently enigmatic ways, and it will frequently be possessed by demons you don't even have names for.  At least the horse you (probably) bed down in a nice stable and leave.  Your voice comes with you.  Your own personal little conundrum.  Waiting to confuse the gorblimey out of you the next time you open your mouth.

** Never mind the fifty-seven years before either of them

*** And then there are the ones that aren't silly so much as too scary:  sing without piano more says a note from last time, it breaks up concentration.  But—but—but—no piano?  What am I supposed to hide behind?

            This is so the great revelation about singing.  It gets you where you live.  I've said this before, haven't I?  It's just . . . gibber gibber gibber gibber.  Even down here at my dweeb entry level the quality of the notes your singing teacher can winkle out of you is in direct proportion to your willingness/ability to let your frelling guard down. 

† As I was pretty nearly entirely dependent on Jenny and my riding lessons.  Sure, I could ride—better than I can sing, having done a lot more of it, including having had a lot more riding lessons—but to get anywhere, I needed Jenny's eye and input.  I don't know if this says something really embarrassing about my lack of practical/productive relationship with my own physical self, or whether it's more about how acquisition of skill happens.  Once you can read, you don't need any more reading lessons, you chiefly just need to read.^  But there is no dictionary for live things—horses, voices.  Experience and empathy aren't just interesting adjuncts—as in a discussion about different readers' reactions to the same book—but absolutely crucial to progress.  Unless you're the kind of genius who makes the how-to-progress stuff up in the first place, and there ain't none of them here, boss. 

^ Although this is a bit of a rant of mine+:  You do need to read.  There's an infinite difference between basic literacy and being able to read.  Back in the days when I still did school visits I used to say this to the kids:  I don't care if you get A-pluses on the quizzes from your textbooks.  To extract some fraction of the amazing riches available to you via the printed word . . . you have to read till the effort of reading is second nature to you—no, first nature, like breathing.  And then you have to . . . keep reading.

+ There are so many  

†† It is very pleasing, when you say you're studying voice, and people ask you what you're singing, and you say, oh, Britten and Beethoven and Vaughan Williams, when what you mean is folk songs. 

††† Ie five people who don't know what they're doing, and Wild Robert