Photo credit: www.theguardian.com
I have a vivid recollection of auditioning for the high school musical when I was 16, where I performed a verse and the chorus of the iconic Irene Cara song, “Flashdance … What a Feeling.” Ignoring my music teacher’s suggestion to select a song that matched my vocal abilities, I chose this one because I harbored a secret desire to become a dancer, donning a welding mask like the film’s protagonist.
The lead-up to the auditions was filled with dedication. I spent countless hours honing the lyrics and reliving the unforgettable scenes on my old VHS copy of “Flashdance.” Although I longed to emulate the dance moves, it became apparent that my strengths lay elsewhere.
Our tight-knit group of friends vied for the coveted lead roles, and I envisioned myself on stage, harmonizing alongside the boy I had a crush on. The anticipation reached its peak when the cast list was finally posted outside the music room. I can still recall the butterflies in my stomach as we rushed to see the results.
While everyone received parts in the production—a testament to the commitment to inclusion—I found myself in the speaking role that did not feature any singing. Although acting was also not my forte, I reveled in the experience of being on stage, focusing on delivering my lines with enthusiasm.
This audition experience has lingered in my memory for years, leaving me adept at sidestepping public singing ever since. Apart from the occasional renditions of “Happy Birthday” or the sound of my voice echoing off bathroom walls as I sing in the shower, I generally avoid exposing my voice.
That all changed when I attended CresFest, a charming music festival held in Creswick, located in north-west Victoria. The festival celebrates the joy of music, featuring a blend of performances from both local and international artists, along with various workshops and choral presentations.
I accompanied three friends who were members of the choir to which my partner once belonged. After he passed away in 2020, the choir honored him with a performance during his memorial service, which left me feeling like an unofficial member ever since.
Upon our arrival, my friends informed me about a community choir singalong scheduled for that evening. Anyone who had purchased a weekend ticket was welcome to participate at the church, learning four songs to perform at the festival’s concluding event.
Initially, I had planned to relax with a book on the couch, but my friends encouraged me to join them for the choir event. Perhaps I saw it as an opportunity to dive into the choral world, something I had previously regarded as beyond my reach.
Driving down the dimly lit country road to the rehearsal, my nerves kicked in, reminiscent of how I felt in that moment years ago. My mind was filled with scenarios where someone would hear my less-than-perfect voice and ask me to leave.
Upon arrival, the church was packed with participants. We were directed to gather according to our vocal ranges. Initially feeling a bit out of place, I was relieved when my friend invited me to stay by her side, where I learned I would be singing alto for the evening.
I positioned myself at the back and decided to mime, thinking that if my voice remained unheard, my presence wouldn’t matter much. With around a hundred singers from various choirs across Victoria filling the church, we began the slow process of learning the songs. Sopranos clustered in one area, basses in another, while the altos and tenors occupied the remaining spaces.
As the sounds of a hundred harmonizing voices filled the air, I felt the enchantment take hold. Spotting my friend’s smile amidst the crowd motivated me, and soon enough, I found my own voice joining in rather than simply miming.
After an hour of collective singing with both familiar and unfamiliar faces, I felt a sense of camaraderie, participating in a fleeting moment of unity. I knew the lyrics would likely escape me as soon as I stepped outside, but that was inconsequential. I had sung publicly among a room full of people and emerged unscathed. It was a moment Irene Cara would surely have applauded.
Nova Weetman is an acclaimed author for children, with her memoir, Love, Death & Other Scenes, published by UQP.
Source
www.theguardian.com