Friday, October 26, 2007 at 2:02am
Sing like a kylie-bird
Column: Outing the Goddess Within
I once believed Kylie Minogue and I had a remarkable string of parallels that would keep us bound together forever as virtual sisters — we are the same age and come from the same hometown, for starters. Now, however, I see our paths veering in separate directions. While I'm choosing to age naturally, her "eyebrow kick" is doing for plastic surgery what Jennifer Aniston's hairstyle did for salons back in the days when "Friends" was popular.
There are other things that are setting us apart. There is the minor matter of 20 kilograms, for one thing. Oh, and a small question about singing talent. She can, I can't. My singing voice is so grating, it gives wailing cats something to compete against. Even Lucifer gets cold chills when he hears me howl.
If I could have one talent, it would be the gift of singing. I would give my left arm to be able to sing, but I've already given that up to be ambidextrous. I have a habit of singing in the shower for the great acoustics. But when my rubber duck threw in the towel one day, soaking it completely, I knew it was time to do something about finding the key to my tone deafness.
My plan was simple, like my ex-boyfriend. But unlike my ex-boyfriend, this plan might just work. I would take singing lessons. After all, if with the proper amount of manpower, pliers, ropes, belts and duct tape, a horse could be led to water and made to drink, then surely there was a way that I could be made to sing in key.
To be honest, the idea of singing lessons scared me half to death. Which is not something I wanted to happen twice.
But I soldiered on, forcing my fingers to dial the number of a singing teacher. I was surprised when she answered, because in these situations my fingers usually sabotage my intentions by becoming spontaneously numerically dyslexic.
"Silence is golden, Noise is nice," she spieled, pronouncing nice in poetic rhythm with noise.
Noice.
Apologizing in advance that I was totally unable to sing, I told her my only goal was to master one song before the year was out, and if she would help me do this, I would be eternally grateful. My teacher reassured me constantly that "everyone can sing, dear, you just need to be shown the key."
Not sure whether that was pun-intended, I went to my first lesson nevertheless, and boldly stated I wanted to be just like Kylie and master "La la la, Can't Get You Out of My Head."
"Too hard dear, let's go for something simpler first."
I chewed my nail and ran through Kylie's hit list. "How about 'Confide in Me'? No? Hmmm, what about 'Spinning Around'? 'On a Night Like This'? 'I Should Be So Lucky'?" All of my suggestions received the same dismissive shake of the head.
I gulped, not sure I wanted to go to the next extreme. "'Locomotion?' I stammered. "I think we should start with 'Happy Birthday," my teacher decided.
Truth be told, I was kind of relieved I wouldn't be tarnished with the tags of "singing budgie" or "pint-sized-pop-puppet" that come hand-in-hand with "Locomotion." So, I happily took the opportunity to learn "Happy Birthday."
But first I had to find my Marilyn Monroe dress and an underground air vent.
At this, my teacher was only just starting to see the colossal task she had ahead of her. But to her credit, onward she marched with me out of step behind her, singing "One, two, three, four" in the key of C. Or in my case, the key of Rusted Tin.
Over several lessons, I learned how to breathe from somewhere other than my lungs, but am still confused to this day where my diaphragm actually is — I always thought it had something to do with contraception. I learned how to exhale a note on an unwavering breath, which for one tiny moment would sound like Bolivian crystal being tinged rather than smashed. And I learned how to hit the key of C and hold it.
I never did learn to slide off C for a smooth transition to B or D. But at all birthday parties now, I am confident to lead the crowd in singing "Happy Birthday" in a perfect pitch of C. When all eyes are on me and I am enraptured in the perfect pitch leaving my mouth, for that one tiny fraction of a second I am the magical pop goddess Kylie Minogue (pre-artificial-eyebrow kick, that is).
— — —
Anita Revel is the creatrix of Goddess.com.au, a content-rich website aimed at helping you connect with your beautiful, sassy, intuitive, lovable, sacred and authentic self. You can read more of her columns here. © Copyright 2007 by Anita Revel.
There are other things that are setting us apart. There is the minor matter of 20 kilograms, for one thing. Oh, and a small question about singing talent. She can, I can't. My singing voice is so grating, it gives wailing cats something to compete against. Even Lucifer gets cold chills when he hears me howl.
If I could have one talent, it would be the gift of singing. I would give my left arm to be able to sing, but I've already given that up to be ambidextrous. I have a habit of singing in the shower for the great acoustics. But when my rubber duck threw in the towel one day, soaking it completely, I knew it was time to do something about finding the key to my tone deafness.
My plan was simple, like my ex-boyfriend. But unlike my ex-boyfriend, this plan might just work. I would take singing lessons. After all, if with the proper amount of manpower, pliers, ropes, belts and duct tape, a horse could be led to water and made to drink, then surely there was a way that I could be made to sing in key.
To be honest, the idea of singing lessons scared me half to death. Which is not something I wanted to happen twice.
But I soldiered on, forcing my fingers to dial the number of a singing teacher. I was surprised when she answered, because in these situations my fingers usually sabotage my intentions by becoming spontaneously numerically dyslexic.
"Silence is golden, Noise is nice," she spieled, pronouncing nice in poetic rhythm with noise.
Noice.
Apologizing in advance that I was totally unable to sing, I told her my only goal was to master one song before the year was out, and if she would help me do this, I would be eternally grateful. My teacher reassured me constantly that "everyone can sing, dear, you just need to be shown the key."
Not sure whether that was pun-intended, I went to my first lesson nevertheless, and boldly stated I wanted to be just like Kylie and master "La la la, Can't Get You Out of My Head."
"Too hard dear, let's go for something simpler first."
I chewed my nail and ran through Kylie's hit list. "How about 'Confide in Me'? No? Hmmm, what about 'Spinning Around'? 'On a Night Like This'? 'I Should Be So Lucky'?" All of my suggestions received the same dismissive shake of the head.
I gulped, not sure I wanted to go to the next extreme. "'Locomotion?' I stammered. "I think we should start with 'Happy Birthday," my teacher decided.
Truth be told, I was kind of relieved I wouldn't be tarnished with the tags of "singing budgie" or "pint-sized-pop-puppet" that come hand-in-hand with "Locomotion." So, I happily took the opportunity to learn "Happy Birthday."
But first I had to find my Marilyn Monroe dress and an underground air vent.
At this, my teacher was only just starting to see the colossal task she had ahead of her. But to her credit, onward she marched with me out of step behind her, singing "One, two, three, four" in the key of C. Or in my case, the key of Rusted Tin.
Over several lessons, I learned how to breathe from somewhere other than my lungs, but am still confused to this day where my diaphragm actually is — I always thought it had something to do with contraception. I learned how to exhale a note on an unwavering breath, which for one tiny moment would sound like Bolivian crystal being tinged rather than smashed. And I learned how to hit the key of C and hold it.
I never did learn to slide off C for a smooth transition to B or D. But at all birthday parties now, I am confident to lead the crowd in singing "Happy Birthday" in a perfect pitch of C. When all eyes are on me and I am enraptured in the perfect pitch leaving my mouth, for that one tiny fraction of a second I am the magical pop goddess Kylie Minogue (pre-artificial-eyebrow kick, that is).
— — —
Anita Revel is the creatrix of Goddess.com.au, a content-rich website aimed at helping you connect with your beautiful, sassy, intuitive, lovable, sacred and authentic self. You can read more of her columns here. © Copyright 2007 by Anita Revel.