“Is this damn snow ever gonna quit?”
A Wisconsin cliche from the well-dressed businessman sitting next to me. Total Chatty Cathy. Meh, that doesn’t work, try again, Monica. Chatty Chip, there it is. Chattery like a chipmunk. This guy would talk to a chunk of granite strung out on Xanax. But he’s fun, and we are having a nice, albeit rather one sided, conversation. Since I now go out alone all the time with zero intention of dating, the people I’ve met have gotten wayy more interesting. I’ve met ski guides, personal trainers, horse and dog whisperers, mediums, I won’t say larges even though that’s what immediately popped into my head after mediums, and countless other fascinating people from a thousand different walks of life. It’s amazing who you meet when it’s no longer dating options, just various people with their ways of living. But this conversation is going to be a keystone, though I don’t know it yet. And it’s confession time.
There’s something you don’t know about me…
At least I haven’t really spent much time talking about it. Not near as much as this guy is loading into my ears.
Ever since I was working in the church for Pastor Real, I have been performing on the side. I may have not been allowed secular music in the earlier church days, but nature finds a way, and I have been singing and working hard on my voice the entire time. Studying the voices of singers I love and respect, practicing, learning. I read everything I can about voice. I study materials from experts who teach celebrity icons how to sing. I study how to sing super high notes. I practice vocal exercises from top opera teachers. I study how to make your tone buttery and rich, homemade melted caramel for your ears. (Now I just want homemade melted caramel). I was a thirsty sponge, seeking knowledge I wasn’t allowed to go to college to learn. Fine. I’ll figure out another way. And make another way I have, all the way up until I moved to Big Suburb and became so Dude-distracted I forgot my dreams.
Way back during my tenure at Pastor Real’s church, and after an absolute kickass morning of worship music in which we had hired extra musicians to beef it up (when was the last time you heard the phrase kickass worship music?): “Hey, Monica…,”, a question from my musician pal who was expert on trumpet. “Would you be interested in singing in my band for a wedding?” My jaw dropped, and I picked it up in time to say HELL YEAH… -actually HECK YEAH because remember, I’m still in the church. He saw me lead worship and needed a singer for his band for a wedding reception. He thinks I’m good enough to sing jazz! Of course, I jumped at the idea immediately, and commenced work on a setlist of jazz standards, staple songs common enough that most jazz players already know them. I started by learning All Of Me, which turned out to be My First Jazz Song Since College, and built up from there into a full repertoire. This was an important piece of myself returned, being a jazz singer was part one of my original destination before I was railroaded into the church world.
That first gig I was so uptight, my black sheath dress barely hid my anxiety over singing secular music. This was forbidden fruit, and I was absolutely positive I would be struck down by lightning. Oh, but I chomped down hard into that controversial contraband, and it was absolutely delicious! From the very first note I sang that night with the wedding band, I was in love. Mother Nature played along with the game by providing one hell of a massive thunderstorm. I was positive this was god’s retribution for singing anything edgier than Kum Ba Yah, but in spite of the massive sky fireworks and a heavy midnight storm that left us all packing up sodden cables, music stands and damp sheet music at the end of the night, I remained alive, heart beating beneath the silky black fabric of my somewhat risque dress. I was playing with fire. And I loved it, and my eyes were hypnotized, obsessed with the blaze.
I’m hooked.
More like obsessed.
I’m a tweaking addict ready to do anything for the next hit of blessed performance. I loved everything about it. Nothing had changed since my first foray onto the stage at age six. Onstage, I am fire, all systems go, doing exactly what I was created to do. I set a practice timer and made sure I practiced at least an hour each day. I memorized. I practiced various kinds of scales, the foundation of improvisation. I hunted down a top jazz singer and studied with her for six years. I had first a jazz band, then added a rock band. And, all along I sang for weddings, funerals, and anywhere else you might need Somewhere Over The Rainbow belted. I joined a ten-piece band with a horn section, one I’m with to this day.
But once I moved to Big Suburb and away from all the musicians I knew, I lost myself. I was so involved with Dudes, I forgot who the hell I was. I forgot the stage I shared with the nationally known jazz singer. I forgot the electricity crackle that poured through my body when I performed. I forgot to keep those golden vocal chords in shape. I forgot how this fed my soul. I had been wasting all my time trying to find a partner, instead of pursuing the dreams of the one person who would never fail, who would always be there. That person was me. I had spent so much time worrying about being by myself, whatever would I do alone? I became a faded shadow, a photocopied image that is so wet and dilapidated you can barely tell what it was. Just a hint left… just a memory.
Until now.
I’m talking to Chatty Chip, and it turns out he is president of a nonprofit organization devoted to promoting music in Big Suburb. And he needs help with this fledlging venture. He needs help putting together events. He needs help promoting his organization. He needs help creating fundraisers to draw attention.
He needs help with all the kinds of things I did in the church!
I excitedly give him my number, the most fulfilling number give away to a man I’ve ever done, and go home to wonder why in the hell I waited so long to resurrect the skills I have.
I commence working with Chatty Chip, who turns out to be awesome, and he, I, and the team of ten or so of us start creating some pretty amazing events.
Which finds me in the middle of an Irish event in March, a generous libation-infested soiree to celebrate St Patrick, whom I really hope is sitting on a cloud in Heaven witnessing all of the drunken revelry he has unwittingly hosted over the years. Cheers, St. Patrick, we raise our drinks to you in gratitude. And raise them again. And again…(Repeat until you fall over).
I pull an all-nighter to paint the set of an Irish pub, complete with storefront and headers in a lovely Celtic font. Our team heads in to transform the venue into a giant Irish party zone; backdrops, tablecloths, decorations, centerpieces and all of the rooms decorated to promote an Erin Go Bragh blast. We stop short of turning the river next to the venue green, but definitely come close.
And have the Irish party we do, and it is a hit, all manner of the community coming out to drink Guinness and imbibe delicious Jameson and Tullamore Dew whiskey accompanied by sublime Kerrygold cheese and crusty soda bread to the tune of the Irish musicians we had hired, who just happen to be kicking ass around the block at their awesomely social pub songs. People are having such a great time, and it is noisy, boisterous fun. I love putting together parties like this, and the evening is a wild success.
Just one problem. And sometimes all it takes is one tiiiny domino to fall to make the direction of everything take a hard, jarring right.
We have the silent auction. And no one is paying attention to the woman running it, as she tries to shout over the crowd. The Irish duo of musicians behind us patiently wait as she attempts fruitlessly to gain the attention of the eighty or so inebriated attendees. I have an idea…
“Gimme the damn mic.”
“HEEEEEEYYY EVERYBODEEEEEEEE” I wail with a blues-driven, church years-seasoned Gospel voice I had honed for years. I haul it up from the basement and blow out the cobwebs. “IIIIFFFF YOU WAAAAANT TOO-OOOO WINNN ……you’re going to have to PAAAAAY ATTENNTIONNNN! IT’S the SIII-EYYE-EYYYYE-IEEEEEEEELENT AUUUUCTIONNNN OHHHHYEAYEAAAAYEEEEAAAAH” I belt into the mic, improvising a blues melody, and for a split second I am back where I belong, back onstage with a mic in my hand, entertaining, Monica show on for a brief reprise. And they do pay attention. The crowd laughs, and applauds, and I hand the mic back to my friend, and she continues on with the silent auction. And all would have been business as usual except for one thing.
I turn around and both musicians are staring at me.
“Who…are you??”
I smile bigger than I have in five years.
Worship Leader Gone Wild 