Singing For People
Yesterday at the local Social Security office, the guy helping me clarify my Medicare payments asked if I was still self-employed. It felt like a trick question, a quiz with two possible answers. I’m either self-employed or I’m retired. Neither are true. Self-employed means you’re working alone to create income; retired means you’re finished, and I’m not.
A few years ago, the guy who does our taxes put it this way: you’re an amateur, Bar. That’s not what he said, but that’s what I heard. What he was obliged to tell me was that I no longer generated enough income as a singer songwriter to take deductions on my return. Being demoted from pro to amateur in my own mind leveled me.
Still, every month, I get a few deposits in my checking account letting me know that somewhere in the world someone is listening to my music. It’s a thrill every time. (Thank you if you’re one of those people!) It’s also surreal to me that someone is listening to me when I’m not there. Sometimes I can’t even comprehend that I did any of that recording or songwriting. I wonder if other people feel that way about the work they’ve done in the past.
I spend too much time worried about my dwindling desire to make music as if it’s a requirement or I owe someone. Other times I think I’m just plain tired. I’m getting older after all. But then I get I tripped up because for a lot of years I thought singing was my purpose. Now, I don’t. So, what is my purpose? Do I have to have one?
While I was in Woodstock a couple of weeks ago, I ran into a guy I know. We had both gotten tea at the local bakery. He was sitting on a bench in the sun when I came out, so we got to talking. He told me he and his wife used to come to my concerts and that he missed hearing me sing. It meant a lot to me to hear that. As grateful as I am to be home at night and not driving to a gig far away, I miss singing for people. Recording and working alone in my studio will never be as fulfilling as singing for an audience. I was always happiest on stage, sure of myself in ways that I’m not when I’m in my studio. As our conversation was winding down and I headed to my car, I turned to my friend and asked him if he’d like me to sing for him. He was taken aback. So was I. I’ve never asked anyone that before. The words just came out. He said of course, so I sat down next to him, leaned in close, and sang for him. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done. Reminded me that I can sing anywhere for anyone; that it’s the business of singing I’ve struggled with, not the singing itself.
Given your title and the first line of this piece, I first thought it was going to be about you singing in the Social Security office! I wonder what that would be like, if the world was suddenly, spontaneously gifted with you singing in public, a song here, a song there, for no reason but the joy of it? I remember a violinist friend of ours happened to be passing through Westcliffe the week we closed on our house. She stopped by as we were cleaning and making lists of all the projects we needed to do. We chatted for a half hour and then she suddenly asked, “Can I play for you?” And I could have cried. Something about being given the full voice of that instrument and her generosity that felt like sheer blessing. It was not performance. It was grace. You, my friend, are pure grace, too.
that made me cry.