A
Moral Somewhere
For
those of you who don't know,
I have spent the better part
of the last six months not
being able to sing. I've visited
numerous doctors, had tubes
stuck up my nose and down
my throat, and been forced
to pay $366.75 for one prescription
that more or less only serves
as a precautionary treatment.
Needing
to still make a living, I
have continued to play shows
when necessary. Fortunately,
there are numerous hole-in-the-wall
clubs where I can play low-profile
gigs and the audience merely
thinks I'm just a really bad
local cover band.
How
bad? Let me put it this way
- to compare the sound my
voice makes to that of a chorus
of tone deaf cats simultaneously
fighting and in heat would,
in fact, be doing the cats
a great disservice. I have
spent the last fifteen years
of my life working on my craft,
striving to be a great performer.
To endure performances that
make me sound as if I've never
set foot on a stage before
is, in a word, humiliating.
"I'm
not this bad!" I want
to scream to them. "I've
wowed audiences of 30,000!
You should hear my record!"
But
I don't say it, because right
now there's no reason to believe
me.
Prior
to this ailment, we were in
preproduction for a new record.
The band was rehearsing, the
songs were coming together,
and I was getting hungry for
the road again. My last record
came out in 1998 and it's
been way too long since I've
been out performing the original
music that I love.
Now
it's all on hold. Band members
wait patiently for me to heal.
Sometimes weeks go by and
I don't even pick up a guitar
simply because I don't want
to deal with the frustration
that comes when I go to sing.
I worry how long supporters
and sponsors will stick with
me, wonder if the band will
get better offers, feel constantly
that the entire music community
is moving ahead while I'm
left behind.
Lethargy
sometimes rule the days and
weeks. I had come to define
myself as a singer/songwriter
- writing and performing is
my passion, my one true joy.
Suddenly deprived of that,
I feel lost, confused about
who I am. Motivation is hard
to find when you feel like
everything you've ever worked
for is slowly slipping away.
Confidence
has eroded. I used to feel
most comfortable on stage
in front of a crowd. The lights,
the weight of the guitar,
the adrenaline rush that comes
with singing made me feel
at home. Now I get nauseous
before performances. I dread
standing behind the microphone
because I constantly question
whether or not the next note
will hold or pop.
The
effects of this ailment do
not end with me - my loved
ones suffer also as I struggle
with the depression and the
frustration. Forced to question
the very basis of my identity
makes me a cranky, ornery,
impatient person. Fewer shows
means, of course, fewer dollars,
and that brings whole worlds
of stress to our little house.
I'm
not sharing this because I
want your sympathy. This is
my burden alone to carry and,
in many ways, of my own doing.
I could have chosen a normal
career, one that wouldn't
require me to make my living
on physical attributes. Besides,
I am a firm believer that
there is a lesson in every
trial in life even if, at
the time, we cannot decipher
what it is.
But
trust me when I tell you that
I'm more than ready to learn
the damned lesson, put this
difficult time behind me,
and get back to feeling comfortable
calling myself a singer/songwriter.
This
column © 2002 Lee Totten.
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