I have a fantasy. I’ve always wanted to be a chick singer. You know the one: the girl in front of the band, the tall thin blond with the painted-on denim jeans who slaps a tambourine and croons into a microphone who gets all the hunky guys, is the center of attention and adored by all. Yep, that’d be me—minus the tall, thin, blond and painted on jeans. I’m only guessing I could play a tambourine, and I’m afraid if I sang into a microphone, the neighbors would call the police. Okay, so I don’t fit the profile.
But I love to sing. Only my husband seems to mind when I do. The neighbors have yet to complain and the dogs occasionally chime in too. They don't care that I don't know the lyrics. In the shower, in the car, anywhere is good. Singing is such a release, and it's so gratifying to bellow at the top of one's lungs.
This fantasy goes way back. My best childhood friend, Shelley and I were nine years old, dancing back to back in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of her bedroom door. With Dr. Pepper-flavored Lipsmackers for microphones, we sang in unison to the radio along with Casey Kasem and the "hits from coast to coast, on American Top Forty." We were confident we were headed for the big time.
We got serious and entered a talent competition at a public library on the other side of town. The song we chose was "Ben" from the movie by the same name about a gigantic pet rat that recruits other rats to attack humans. The lyrics were quite touching about two good friends, nothing about an evil rodent. Shelley had the sheet music, and I played the accompaniment on her mother's electric organ, which had a built-in cassette player. We recorded ourselves and played it back. We thought we sounded just as good as Michael Jackson. We were going to be stars!
We practiced over and over until the day of the competition. The auditorium was crammed with aspiring entertainers like us, and we waited for hours anticipating our moment to shine. Our vision of making it to the top of the heap quickly dwindled as performer after performer took center stage. Shelley and I were out of our league. When our names were called, we dutifully climbed up on stage and took the microphone, our legs shaking with every step. Once we were in the spotlight and the music started, we froze. Not a croak came out of our mouths, and we couldn't get off that stage fast enough.
We didn't let our failure stop us from singing, however. Back to the bedroom we went with our Lipsmackers.
That year was the same year as Helen Reddy came out with the hit, "I am Woman." That song introduced me to feminism, and I have to smile, imagining how we must have looked, two third-graders singing along with the record spinning on the hi-fi: "I am woman, hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore…". I loved the part, "I am strong. I am invincible, I am WOMAN!" I always knew I was special because I was a girl. If only I could be a chick singer too.
Fortunately, I know the fine line between fantasy and reality. I can still enjoy my dream, knowing that I will never be on American Idol, have a hit single or a recording contract. I can be satisfied harmonizing with Wynonna Judd or Sheryl Crow or Vonda Shepard. They don't even have to know. Hey, will somebody please hand me that tambourine?
Lyrics from "I Am Woman" by Helen Reddy and Ray Burton, Copywrite 1972
Lyrics from "Ben" by Don Black and Walter Scharf. Copywrite 1972
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