Who’s Got Talent? Really…Who’s Got it?
One of my literary inspirations, the incomparable Dave Barry, has this long running schtick about bad songs. He even wrote a book about it. He titled it Dave Barry’s Book of Bad Songs. By the way, doesn’t ‘schtick’ sound like a cheesy deodorant for middle-aged guys who think they are funny enough to hit on 21 year-old girls at the beach? Yeah, that’s what I thought too.
But anyway, I think I have figured out why there are so few good songs in the history of all kinds of music that aren’t classical or opera: there aren’t enough good singers to sing them. If I’m a writer – wink, wink – do I want to waste my talent on some schlepp who can’t carry a note in a stylish faux leather man bag with built-in phone charger? No!
Next Person Up
The evidence for my case against people who think they can sing, but are badly mistaken, was an event my lovely wife and I streamed last evening. Said event was a convention of sorts. I say ‘of sorts’ because I really don’t know what the heck it was supposed to be. It was put on by a very large media company who shall remain nameless for this post, mostly because I don’t want to get sued.
We watched, or should I say endured, nearly two hours of the festive proceedings because we wanted to hear the announcements made in between musical performances, some of which were so audiologically offensive they made Jimmy Fallon seem like Luciano Pavarotti. And that’s not saying much when you consider that opera barely qualifies as singing.
I Can Hear You Already
One of the musical themes of the evening was screaming. In fact, I’ve noticed that a lot lately. If you can’t sing, just scream into the mic while contorting your face to make it look like you are having an emotional moment, or something having to do with a burrito. It works either way.
Look Sista’ Tha’ Singer Person, I get that you can call a herd of wild buffalo at 500 yards, but can you put Fievel to sleep with a gentle lullaby? The voice is supposed to be an instrument played as finely as a Stradivarius violin. But you seem content to use your voice like a nuclear kazoo. Dial it back, baby!
I have to say that the futile attempt at entertaining music I witnessed last night was not all screaming. In fact, there was a male duo – I really have no idea who they were – dressed in tuxedos (complete with tails) and cavorting on stage while attempting harmonious vocal musings. It wasn’t working.
I don’t know if these guys ever played Broadway, but I hope for Broadway’s sake they have not. Nothing is more demeaning to New York’s theater scene than cavorting singers who, without the help of modern electronics to disguise their inability to actually sing, would be no better off than Milli Vanilli.
At Least They Kept Quiet
After several hours of exposing both my eardrums and brain to a tremendous bruising, I went to bed with a newfound respect for Milli Vanilli. Maybe they were frauds and cheats, but at least they had the sense to keep quiet. They couldn’t sing and they knew it. So they let someone else do it for them while they danced around on stage making you think that what they were doing was more real than pro wrestling.
Today, being able to sing isn’t a prerequisite for becoming a singer. You just have to look the part and be able to move somewhat rhythmically. Computers will make your voice sound good enough to fool the masses.
Dave Barry, I get you brother. There aren’t a lot of truly good songs out there. But maybe that’s good. Because good songs need good singers, and they are just as hard to find.
