Saturday, April 2, 2016
So the song I'm singing now is a song of spring. Like a bird, I can attempt to slide up and down the scale, or chirp the same note on consecutive phrases. What tune might this be, you would ask? None other than "Mi chiamano Mimi" from La Boheme by Puccini. Specifically, the lyrics midway are:
guardo sui tetti e in cielo;
ma quando vien lo sgelo il primo sole e mio
il primo bacio dell'aprile e mio!
il primo sole e mio!
I look over the roofs and into the sky,
but when comes the thaw the first sun is mine
the first kiss of April is mine!
the first sun is mine!
Sounds a little like me, me, and mine, but I guess that's why they call her Mimi. Still, I like the poetic concept. The birds now are greeting the dawn an hour in advance with their songs, and I've spotted many a one singing their little hearts out perched on the highest branch of a tree. Their repertoires are complex and gloriously uplifting, and like a opera, generally about love and boundaries.
Not content to be a passive listener to these arias, a few years ago I thought I would give it a go of trying it out myself. The idea of finding my authentic voice was appealing, as it was with my first cry when born. Unfortunately, this primordial pleasure is frequently corrupted by self-consciousness and shame as one leaves childhood behind.
Taking time to twitter is as vital to one's soul as any art. The ultimate in luxury is a private voice lesson, when your very own teacher focuses exclusively on your vocal folds as if under a microscope. With a piano accompaniment, a beautiful melody, and personal participation, where is there more bliss?
Great singers make it seem effortless, and my operatic career will have to wait for another reincarnation. Still, I fantasize about groups of friends sharing song together as was common years ago for entertainment, simply for the fun of it. As a true amateur (translates as lover), I do it for love rather than for money.