Crazy Crap Item #172: The part where I discover how singing is like fire-walking

Years ago, friends, I used to sing in public all the time. You couldn't stop me. Indeed, during the summer between my first and second years of graduate school, I'd go on auditions for shows I had no intention of being in, just for the practice. I'd sign up, sing my lungs out, then go home and leave a message for the director saying I'd just accepted a role in another show, so I'd have to remove myself from consideration. Such a sly boots, I am.

Well, then came life. At a certain point during grad school, I realized that if I was going to have any hope of, oh, say, writing a dissertation, I'd have to stop playing with all my little undergrad theater major friends. Buckle down. Get a life.

A life, it seems, is hard to get rid of once you've got it. I finished that dissertation, found a job, found a career, found a husband (in that order and all in one place, incidentally), and found that I'd left the world of performing behind.

Sure, I continued to dabble. I took voice lessons, for no reason besides fun and the fact that my voice teacher is a vastly entertaining, certifiable nut job. I joined an a cappella group, then ditched it for another one.

But aside from the occasional karaoke outing, I didn't take the stage. And thus it was that I got ... bored. Really bored. So I had the bright idea of staging my own showcase. Rent a studio. Pay them to record. Invite all my near and dear. And spend 45 minutes singing before a LIVE AUDIENCE.

And, apart from the nervous breakdown the endeavor engendered, it seemed to be a success. I was overwhelmed by the many friends who attended, and basked in the glow of undivided attention before many staring eyes. And then I collapsed.

So, the question inevitably arose: How could one reap all the fun and benefits of flaunting one's musical wares and not teeter into a state of nervous exhaustion. If only, I thought, someone would do all the work--book the space, get an accompanist, round up an audience, and supply a line-up of other singers so I wouldn't have to carry the burden of an entire show.

Well, who knew it, someone read my mind. Open mic cabaret, don't you know? It exists. Offering everything I want and nothing I don't.

So it was that, just last night, I bundled up some choice ditties, put on my eyeliner, and carted my attention-seeking ass down to Petterino's for Monday Night Live.

To back up: Actually getting to Petterino's is not was simple as I made out. The journey started about three weeks ago. That's when I first heard about the event on WFMT. Of course, I must go. At least to check it out, if not sing. By the time Monday rolled around, I was FIRED UP, ready to sing. I prettied up my person, warmed up my voice, and headed down.

Only to discover, yes, Monday Night Live is every Monday night. But not tonight. Sorry.

The following week, I labored to prepare, only to succumb to an ague just before leaving.

Week 3, I pretended to want to go, but it was a rare sunny afternoon, and the Casey boys were out cavorting, so I managed to "miss" my window of prep time in order to get to Petterino's by 7pm.

Now, anyone who's performed knows that the worst enemy a performer has is the headcase. And if you give in to the urge to delay getting on stage, the headcase will invariable step in. And thus it is that your glorious career will be infelicitously cut short.

So all this delaying, I knew it was ... not good. I needed to leap in, or I'd never leap again.

Thus it was that I found myself at Petterino's last night. And, friends, it was a delightful surprise. Everyone was overwhelmingly friendly. Upon arrival, I was "adopted" by a regular who insisted i sit at her table, and who offered encouragement and reassurance. I had the pleasure of singing not one but two songs (it was a slow night) and the equal pleasure of hearing a lot of really good singing.

After my first song, flush with adrenaline, watching the singer after me wrestle with the headcase, it struck me how this whole endeavor is, as my title suggested, like a firewalk. You don't have to do it. Nothing material is gained by doing it. You will save a lot of stress and drama by simply not doing it. Most sane people would never even consider it. But doing it feels fantastic. Afterwards, anyway.

And then you'll want to do it again.