There was an early time in my life when I could render a tune passably. My voice wasn’t bad. I guess it came of listening to my Dad, who had a rich, rolling baritone, and my mom, who on her few happy days, would sing the old [20’s – 30’s] songs. I also played violin, trumpet and French horn while in high school. I was chosen each year to play in the Tri-State symphony, and sing in their chorus.
It’s heart-breaking to call back those agreeable memories set against the reality that I cannot now carry a note in a tote-bag.
Then of course, there was Elvis. As kids, brother Denny and I would impatiently count the days until the next Elvis Presley album would come out on a glittery sleeve containing a 78 vinyl disc within. Also therein, if God was in His Heaven, we would hear the voice of Presley’s bass, JD Sumner. JD once held the Guinness Book of Records for the lowest note ever sung, C below Low C.
JD could rumble the floorboards and rattle the tea cups. I listened to one of their ‘out-takes’ – the rehearsals. JD bottomed out at the end of the song, his singing group congratulated him. JD, rather confused by the praise, said, “But that’s all I can do, is hit low notes.” One of his friends said, “JD, that’s all you’ve got to do!”
We would load our new treasure onto our blue and white portable record player and wait breathlessly for JD, whose depth and range we would ludicrously attempt to mimic with our squeaky adolescent voices. JD was possessed of a gravelly, seemingly bottomless voice. It was, in our opinion, a waste of good vinyl not to have JD prominently highlighted in the lyric.
Although once the champ, he has since been overtaken by a fellow whose vocal range was so low – a basso profundo and then some – that his voice cannot be heard in its lowest register; his notes were authenticated and attested to by some sort of acoustical sensing device; so, while the proof was there, it seems sort of pointless to appreciate a voice you cannot hear; sort of upsets the spirit of the thing.
“Sure enough, folks, he hit the lowest note ever and although you couldn’t hear it, he sure did sing it.” Pooh! Denny and I wanted to hear the growl and hear it well.
I have a partner at work who plays original bluegrass on the small radio near his work station. We call it ‘Music to skin skunks by.” Of course, not all music can trace its roots to Appalachia – although many fine turns do, and I have often thought of bluegrass as a musical phenomenon frozen in time, not far different now from when the first bow drew squeakily across the first string, or the first thumb plucked a string many generations ago in America.
Much of music, jazz and the blues came from Louisiana, others yet from the plaintive laments of slaves. T’was the riverboats which pollinated the genre up-river, sung in ‘minstrel’ shows: The Christy Minstrels, and the Second Generation The New Christy Minstrels ; if you’ve never heard them, do yourself a favor.
My roommate in college, Judd, played a great guitar. We began singing in our barracks room, and found the result not too shabby. Often Eddie, a lanky cadet with a whiskey-smooth baritone would join us. The trouble with Eddie was, although he had a wonderful singing voice, he was tone-deaf – a contradiction I found peculiar. At the end of a musical phrase, where a bass finishing was required, I would lean towards Eddie and sing the first three notes of a five note rundown; I, in essence pointed Eddie’s way to a note I could not reach, and Eddie would summarily nail it.
Judd and I, but not Eddie, won the talent show in our freshman year at the Citadel, to the wonderment of all. We sang ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.’ We sang the first verse slowly, mournfully and then amped it up. To put it simply:”we rocked.” I doubt there was a foot in that hallway long ago that wasn’t tapping out our rhythm.
Although I still try, my ear tells me my voice is nowhere near where it used to be. Allergies? Maybe, but I may just have the first recorded case of Alzheimers of the vocal cords.
Yes, I suspect that explains it.
Look for Lucky’s books locally and on-line: The Oath of Hippocrates; The Cotillian; A Journey Long Delayed; Campfire Tales; Sabonics.
