The Cut-off: To Sing or Not to Sing?

As every Boomer knows, as we grow older we face an ever increasing array of Cut-offs. 

That is, we reach ages at which it no longer seems appropriate to talk, act, or dress in ways we once found natural when the world was young and we were younger.

                                                                                                                

Though cut-offs abound --- from the cut-off for wearing a baseball cap backwards (31) to the cut-off for growing hair completely covering your ears (43) --- one important cut-off seems never to have been established:

How old is too old to sing in public where others can hear?

It’s true.

Walking across the quad at age 22 singing “Southern Man” with your best Neil Young may have once made you seem cool; walking across the parking lot at Target doing the same at age 62 makes you a tool.

It's even worse for me.

My singing voice has a vocal quality similar to that of comedian Gilbert Gottfried were Mr. Gottfried practicing the art of hog calling while cutting loose on the tender ballad "Feelings."

Carry a tune? I’d need to call movers.

Perfect pitch? That’s something I always seemed to attract whenever I was batting at softball.

And yet still I sing. Often in public.

You’d think this singing fool were a happy-go-lucky guy, but if you’ve read much of this blog you know better.  I’m the “Poster Boy for Aging Angst!”

Yet still I sing. Often in public.

And when I do, the world often does seem a little bit brighter.

Today I walked into my local convenience store vocalizing Van Morrison perhaps too loudly. People looked at me as if they were terrified I’d leap on the deli counter and begin belting out:

Ding a ling a ling
Ding a ling a ling ding
Ding a ling a ling
Ding a ling a ling ding
Do Da Do Da Do!

Embarrassed, I toned Van Morrison down to a decibel level which would register more readily with store patrons with four rather than two legs.

Some folks yet regarded me in a less than loving manner.

But I continued to sing.

As I walked out of the store, I found myself breaking into “Awaiting on You All” by nobody less than George Harrison.

"You don‘t need no passport, and you don’t need no visas …”

As I rounded a corner I came face to face with a woman about my age. 

She smiled.

“Just keep on singin’!”

she said.

So what is the cut-off for singing in public?

I’m going with none.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Irish Eyes Are Whining

There once were two fellas said "aw, shucks!

On the Emerald Isle bet we'll find luck."

They made many a pass

At many a fine lass

To which many a fine lass said "Hell, no, schmucks!"  

****

The luck of the Irish, I believe, is truly a real and wonderful thing. It begins with how lucky the Irish are to hale from a place of  such uncommon beauty  as the Emerald Isle, a lush green plot of land I was lucky enough to visit over 40 years ago with my college friend Howie.

Howie and I traveled throughout much of Ireland that one summer, spending time in towns and villages like Dublin, Galway, Cork --- where I kissed the legendary Blarney Stone which frankly provided me more of a response than most of the women we met --- and yes, even the above-referenced Limerick as well.  No part of our trip was more memorable, however, than what has been come to be called the "Night of 1,000 Brews  and Two Discordant Jews."

It had been a long day of hiking and hitch-hiking as Howie and I came upon a pub on the outskirts of a small village, the name of which posterity has never quite finished yelling at me for forgetting. As darkness settled around us, we heard the sounds of those in the pub  loudly, lustily, and very beautifully singing an array of Irish tunes to some musical accompaniment. It seemed like it might be a kind of special night or at least a special weekly occasion for the local residents at the pub.  

"Americans?" said the pub keeper as he served us two beers we ordered.  "Welcome, lads, we're delighted you're here!"

From all corners of the pub, folks came forward to greet us, pat us on the back, and make us feel welcome. And beers, lagers, stouts, and all manners of alcoholic brew came flying at us from every direction --- left, right, below, and above!  ABOVE?  Well, I don't know if Jesus is real, but if he is and he does intervene in the affairs of the world, where else would he start but Ireland?  We couldn't have felt more at home if we were at a convention of Jewish grandmothers and it had just been announced that we'd both gotten into Harvard Medical School.

Then, in the midst of that Emerald enclave of Gaelic gaiety and Hibernian hospitality, there came those ten awful words I'll never forget from that evening in the pub by the village whose name I have woefully ever forgot:

"Now, we'll have a song from the two foine lads!"

Now I happen to be a person who cannot sing a note; frankly I couldn't lift a tune, let alone carry one.  And compared to Howie,  I was Celtic Women.  As the two of us would hike along the roadways in Ireland and chance to lift our voices in song, shamrocks would wilt, fertile fields fall fallow,  and leprechauns see fit to commit suicide.

"What do we do now, Howie?!"  I cried.

A fan of the actor John Wayne, Howie thought that because Mr. Wayne starred in the filmed in Ireland movie The Quiet Man,  a song from another of the so-called Duke's movies might find favor.  Such was the measure of our desperation.  As a broadly grinning gent led us up to the microphone, Howie hastily scribbled out the words to She Wore a Yellow Ribbon from the movie of the same name. 

"Here's the lads!" the gentleman exulted.

I looked at Howie,  and he looked back at me.  We took a deep breath and gave forth: 

"And in her hair, she wore a yellow ribbon ...."

Under the sounds of our execrable discordant non-harmonizing. I sensed murmurings of ...

"Sweet Jesus, I thought everyone could sing at least some!"

"Scratch visiting America off our lists ..."

"Is is possible to get some of these beers back?"

We concluded orally raping the Duke, John Ford, and their famed cinematic collaboration, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  I looked at Howie, and he looked back at me. 

"One more time!" he shouted.

One could actually hear Irish eyes whining. 

As I've said before, the luck of the Irish truly is a real and wonderful thing.  Sadly, for the folks this one night over 40 years ago in one pub on the outskirts of a village in Ireland whose name posterity still yells at me for forgetting, it had just run out. 

*****

As hospitable as you can get, sir,

In the pub they kept Perry's lips wet, sir

Beers flew at him fast

Which he drank to the last

And Perry is still peeing yet, sir! 

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Everyone!

~~~~~~~~~~~

You never forget your first stone!

To Sing or Not to Sing

It has always bothered me that I cannot sing.

Carry a tune? I can’t even lift one.

My semester-by-semester  grades in Vocal Music on my junior high report card read like the provocative bra size of a woman whom if I ever met I would most certainly propose to on the spot!

D .... D .... D .... D

My musical disability, however, has never prevented me from singing.  I sing in the shower, in the car, and occasionally just while walking down the street.

Since I sound something like the late actor John Wayne performing scat selections from the Ella Fitzgerald Songbooks, sometimes when I’m traipsing through Philadelphia warbling Stairway to Heaven, people hustle their children across the street as though I were a drooling degenerate instead of merely a menace to the membranes of the inner ear. 

Sadly my musical infirmity has been passed on to my 16 year old son Brandon, whose vocal stylings sound as if they were specially arranged just for him by John McLaughlin of The McLaughlin Group.   Sometimes even I want to tell him to shut the hell up!

But I know how it is; music is in our very souls!

Too bad it isn’t in our diaphragms.

Recently Brandon and I both took in the hottest show on Broadway, The Book of Mormon. Watching the show, I envisioned myself singing and dancing with the cast and earning a thunderous standing ovation as admiring audience members turned their smiling and winking faces towards one another as if to say

 "Wow! An ungainly overage  Jewish star is born!”

Brandon probably had a similar fantasy,  except it most likely also entailed 16-year-old female members of the audience hurling undergarments at him.  In my fantasy, women in my peer group were heaving intimate objects as well --- in this instance, dentures.

Exiting the show, the two of us couldn’t help but perform a duet of the show's signature song.

"I believe ...." I belted out with the same melodious vocal quality I produce after eating clams at Moe's House of Five Day Old Seafood.

"....  that one day I'll have my own planet!" chimed in Brandon, performing in a manner that would inspire many to want to blast him off to that planet far sooner than he'd intended.

Even in a town as jaded as New York, passersby glared.  A mounted policeman's horse reared in panic, throwing the officer into a Starbucks storefront window and just narrowly missing a Starbucks storefront window!

A group of school children wept.

It was apparent Brandon and I were costing musical theater countless fans with every mega off-key note we sang.

“Bran," I said, “Maybe we ought to cut the singing. People are staring at us and not  for the purpose of lining up the affectionate tossing of undergarments!"

"Why, Dad? We're on Broadway in the coolest city in the world.  It's fun!"  

“Yes, but when the people here ….”

“Just don’t give a crap, Dad.  Just enjoy!"

Brandon, of course, was right.  He usually is.

I jumped back into I Believe from The Book of Mormon and scatted it as only the late Duke could!

For all The Big Apple to enjoy. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~