A Cappella

I’m in this space where I want to share the pleasures I know.

Please don’t ask why, I have no idea.

I'm challenged by the notion of finding the right words to capture certain ones of them.

At the front of the line, having put the book thing to paper … is the feeling of singing a cappella. I think I've got it right.

If you're a fellow a cappella singer, let me know.Whether you are, or aren't ... share my attempt with me for a moment.

* * * * * *

A single voice sometimes whispers, occasionally talks, or whistles, periodically shrieks, giggles, laughs, yells, or onomatopoeically expresses some thought.

THIS … is a monologue.

Take the syllables of that soliloquy and physically wrap each of them with a specific frequency.

Let those consecutive pitches float out on the river of sound whose headwaters lie just below your diaphragm.

As you push them toward life—one after the other on an escalator of air, and shape the timbre and volume of each in your larynx … you will experience the conception and birth … of a solo.

Each is as unique as creation itself.

This one exists moment by moment, and disappears into the ether at your whim.

Now form it.

Close your eyes.

Give your solo a face, a name, a personality.

Let it breathe, or bleed, or cry.

Let it have a life of its own.

Let it live it.

Now stand near another who is summoning the same force, and match your frequencies a third above, or a fifth below.

Let them dance.

Force them to foxtrot, tempt them to tango, free them to funkily disco.

Listen to them intertwine, and kiss. Hear them hug. Feel them fuck.

Allow their coition to build, hold, climax, and afterglow.

This is a duet.

Now marry your duet to another duet. Let the orgy marinate.

Now find the man (or woman) whose solo has a beat.

Let that drummer drive, and go as fast or as slow as the percussion lets you.

Turn your solos into a song.

Make it something everybody knows, and sing it for them--as hard, and as perfectly as you can.

Watch their eyes glisten in recognition.

Watch their feet tap as they try to hitch a ride on the rhythm. Watch their flesh flush as their

imagination rises to the challenge of guessing where this trip is headed.

Get louder.

Get softer.

Skip-a-beat.

Then tackle the melody with a counter harmony at the corner.

Lean into the turn.

Smile.

This is the essence of music.

This is what men made instruments to duplicate.

This is what gives jazz its splash, gospel its soul, and rock its rebellion.

This is what you crave while the orchestra is playing.

This is what your monologue always wanted to be.

This is what you’d create if it was just you and the song waiting to be born.

This is what it feels like … to sing a cappella.

*****

Peace,

--Stew.

(2 Oct 06)