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A Gong in My Heart

Someone should stop me, but until they do, I’m Diana Ross.

by Liz Spikol

I don’t think it’ll increase my social standing to admit this, but I was one of those kids who was always in the school play. And the choir. Actually, I was president of the choir.

It started at my wacky elementary school. For our first musical—a Mexican peasant folk tale—I had only a small part. I stood in the back layered in embroidered cotton, and dinged the triangle (the lowliest of “instruments”) every few minutes.

But the next year my freakishly high voice was discovered, and I got to do a duet. The song was called “The Silkie,” which we were told was about a beautiful gray seal. But if you look up the word on Wikipedia, it says the silkie is a variety of chicken, which makes the song less poignant.

From then on, I was featured prominently in all musical performances. My voice was so praised, I became a member of the Philadelphia All Girls Choir, and in summer camp I triumphed in Hair and Bye Bye Birdie. High school brought Guys and Dolls, Godspell and The Pajama Game. I got shut out of Pippin, though. I probably shouldn’t have done a dance routine in the audition.

My senior year I quit the choir to focus on acting, which is funny in retrospect, and my choir director was angry. So my only part in the senior musical was an awkward “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” performance, for which I had to do complicated dance steps while maintaining one line of a three-part harmony. My choir director took great pleasure in my flop sweat.

Soon the House That High C Built came tumbling down. My voice got deeper. My voice teacher moved out of town, taking my vibrato with her. The All Girls Choir disappeared into a heartbreaking no-one-cares mist. My access to vocal passion died, and I’ve been nursing the disappointment ever since.

But in my secret heart, I’ve always thought that given another shot at “The Silkie,” I could make it work. But I don’t think it’s playing on the karaoke machine.

You’d think I’d be a karaoke natural. But I can’t do it. My investment is too high. If I fail, it’ll be like the time I forgot the words to “If I Were a Bell” in Guys and Dolls. Crushing.

But everyone does karaoke. People with the worst voices in the world get up there and sing their hearts out. They alight on D-flat instead of D-sharp. They ignore glottal stops and diphthongs. They’re unmanned by key changes. Yet still, they sing.

The other day I decided to do karaoke at home using an online program called SingShot. It’s a website where 74-year-old men from the United Kingdom sing Dionne Warwick—poorly. I had to join. I turned on my iSight camera and tried a variety of songs for what I call Sweatpant Karaoke—performed in the comfort of one’s own home, unbothered by drunk hecklers and wannabe American idols.

I decided to choose songs I knew well so I wouldn’t get confused by the bouncing ball. I started with the Julie London version of “Cry Me a River,” which has been a bathroom favorite of mine for some time. I love the line, “Told me love was too plebian/ Told me you were through with me and … ” Isn’t that genius?

The bathroom, I learned, is deceiving.

Next I did “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” a classic from eighth-grade sleepover parties. I tried to sound like Olivia Newton-John, but sounded more like Steve Irwin. Delete.

Then came “Touch Me in the Morning,” a no-brainer. It ended up being my favorite because I really felt I was channeling Diana Ross, which is, as anyone who knows me could attest, an amazing transformation.

Finally, I sang “Evergreen,” that horrible Barbra Streisand song that begins, “Love, soft as an easy chair.” What does that even mean? Like a velour recliner? I kept getting stuck at that line, which is a problem because it’s the first one.

Playing around on SingShot was the first time I’d seen or heard myself sing in 20 years. I wasn’t as upset as I thought I’d be. I mean, I wasn’t good, but I wasn’t as bad as some of the other people on that website—and they were karaoke professionals!

In fact, I started to think my talent had come back. I teared up watching myself become Diana Ross. But later that evening I found my boyfriend doubled over at the computer, tears rolling down his face as he watched my karaoke videos. He was laughing harder than I’d ever seen him laugh, and there was no question of at-me-or-with-me, sad to say.

My dreams of being a soul singer or jazz chanteuse fully dashed, I decided to go with more musical theater—this time a song from the soundtrack to Fame. To get a sense of the pageantry and emotion Fame can generate, I’d suggest you go to www.philadelphiaweekly.com, where I’ve posted my karaoke debut. And I encourage all former musical-theater geeks to join me in this crusade to return to our roots. Who’s going to sing “Day by Day,” if not us?

See Liz's video here

Do you have a Sweatpant Karaoke video you want us to post on our website? Email lspikol@philadelphiaweekly.com !