My issues today, good people, are musical. And mostly they're just silly.
First, there's this whole Cheryl Cole/Tweedy (which one is she now?) X-Factor fiasco over who she put through to the live finals. Now I won't go into the details (if you don't know what I'm talking about, you'll be the sort of person who doesn't care), but I have a problem with people having a problem. Get over it.
I'm changing my name to Perez.
Second, I visited a website this morning that gets rid of songs you have stuck in your head by giving you new songs to have stuck in your head, and now I've got "Ease on Down the Road" from TheWiz crammed in there. This wouldn't even be a problem if it wasn't for the following factors:
a) The song is repetitive, boring and annoying.
b) So were the group of American school kids I heard singing it over and over and over every day at the Edinburgh Fringe (which, I have decided, needs to stop letting people enjoy themselves), and whose voices I can hear now, rambling through my coffee-addled brain, asking for a deterrent slap (which shall be henceforth known as "The Scarecrow", or the "Somewhere Over the Rainbow Connection-with-your-face!")
I swear we should've won at Georgetown (especially if this bunch were our opponents - how can you carry a musket if you can't carry a tune?). Then again, if we had won, we wouldn't have 'Brothers&Sisters' or Westernised Judaism, so I suppose America can be permitted on that basis.
My two greatest loves in life: Manhattan Jews and Sally Field. I plan to marry some amalgamation of the two.
But getting to the real issue-for-which-I-may-require-a-tissue, I refer you to last Sunday.
My rehearsal schedule for West Side Story had me down to start around 6pm, but I came in at 4 for some extra dance rehearsal (which quickly turned into me slave-driving my dance partner into a puddle on the ground like some kind of dance-Nazi. Or a dance blender. That's probably more accurate. And bloody. Though the concept of a blender being more dangerous than a Nazi isn't likely to go down well, especially not with my new Herbew-Sally-Field-esque husband. Jewish and passionate. What a man.)
Once we had finished with the ridiculous amount of mamboing (In the space of the last month, that track has made it onto my "25 Most Played" iPod playlist, which, as we all know, has nothing to do with how many times you've played a track and has more to do with whatever Steve Jobs has placed subliminal messaging in: "Buy another iPod. You really want an iPad. It's not totally pointless! The Mac's a piece of genius! WORSHIP ME AND ALL MY WORKS!"), we started work on the songs I have to learn as Tony's understudy, which was pretty cool.
Thing is, I haven't ever been taught how to sing. I have a good voice (I've been told), nice tone (again, told), but I have absolutely no technique whatsoever, and anything I have I've picked up from doing various musicals and stuff, but nothing significant (like Britney - got the goods, just a bit of a mess when displaying said goods. Actually, more like a Next clearance store). My rehearsal went well, but when you're singing "Maria", and are having more trouble with the middle-of-the-road notes than you are with the falsetto, something ain't right (by which I mean 'you're obviously crap at this').
So now I'm starting the search for a singing teacher, because I want to be really good at this. If I'm getting ready for the theatrical war-zone of auditions and castings, I've got to be able to sing better than a lot of other people, and that won't happen without help. In a battle between me and those American kids, it doesn't matter that they're annoying. Look at Lionel Ritchie! They're going to win at Georgetown, and I'm going to be hanging on the Next rack with mismatched plus-size dresses and patchy-glittered Christmas decks.
Lord-I-don't-quite-believe-in, bring me a singing teacher!
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