From This Moment On (5 page)

It’s common for vocal instructors to teach singers specific exercises and techniques that help develop voice resonance in order to
improve sound projection, pitch control, and tone quality. A well-known vocal warm-up exercise, for example, entails creating a buzzing sensation in the lips and tongue while humming “
Umumumumum
.” Hmmmm, that sounds familiar! The tickle on the tongue and lips is the indication that the exercise is being done properly, that the vocalist is successfully resonating the sound. What I now know is an actual vocal technique was instinctively sound play for me at three years old. I’d discovered an internal instrument and was learning how to play it. I was finding my voice.

From that moment on, I sang all the time: to the car stereo (either the radio or the eight-track tape), whatever was playing around the house, with restaurant jukeboxes. Everywhere there was music playing, I was singing along. It was how I spent most of my recreational time, much in the same way that other kids my age caught butterflies in jars or collected lucky pennies in a tin. I listened to music and learned songs. I was in love with all the music genres I’d been exposed to as a small child. Rock, pop, folk, and country. I couldn’t have been more than four years old when “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,” a big harmony-laden hit by the Hollies, came on the radio. I was struck by the profound message in the lyrics, agreeing with the sentiment, championing the words, thinking,
Ya, everyone deserves a helping hand, understanding!
The song’s meaning provoked an awareness in me of sensitivity toward humanity. I respected the singer for feeling so generous and tolerant toward others less fortunate and weaker than himself. I was impressed that he was so willing to help carry someone else’s heavy load.
What a nice guy,
I thought. I also interpreted that he might be implying that no matter where people are from or where they’re going, they are worthy of compassion, and this, to me, spoke out against what, of course, I know now as prejudice.

My mother and Jerry were not together yet, and still in the safe home of my grandmother, I had not yet experienced hunger, nor had I any sense of what it was like to be deprived of any basic necessities. Neither had I been introduced to the realities of a mixed-race family
environment yet, especially not one of a social minority. In fact, I hadn’t even considered that skin could be identified by color. I believe I saw the last of my innocence when I was three. This was the last period in my life I remember living without fear, panic, and insecurity for the welfare of myself and those close to me. At this tender age, my voice was still fun to use, and I didn’t understand anything about the role of fathers because up to Jerry coming into our lives, I had no recollection of a father present, just my mother and my grandmother. I didn’t know anything about whether my mother was happy or not, nor did I worry myself about the future.

Music continued to grow as a passion for me both as a singer and as an enthusiastic listener. On a purely sonic note, I was drawn by the sounds of the Supremes’ records. Every song was as exciting as the last in a long string of hits. Specific songs that stand out in my memory from that time were the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations,” the Turtles’ “Happy Together,” “Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James and the Shondells, and one I couldn’t get out of my head: “Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks. I was so sad for the singer, as in the song he was dying, and I especially felt his pain when he sang “Good-bye, Papa, it’s hard to die, when all the birds are singing in the sky.” Music moved me, and I was emotionally affected by the sounds and the storytelling. I remember people remarking, “Oh, listen to that tiny girl sing!” as I sang along with everything with deep emotion and sincerity. Not everyone was appreciative, though; sometimes I heard, “Eilleen, you’re getting on our nerves. Now stop singing!” I never did, though.

Not unexpectedly, my mother was my biggest fan. Now, my mother couldn’t sing to save her life, but she could tell that I had an ear for music. My singing made her emotional and often teary eyed. One time, when I was about five, the two of us were in the car together, and this new brother-sister duo called the Carpenters came on the radio. I was in awe of the smooth, silky depth of Karen Carpenter’s voice, layered with her own harmonies stacked with her brother’s voice, which created that luscious, distinct vocal blend they had
together. The brother-sister sound poured out of the tinny car radio speakers like pure honey. Wow! No speakers could make the Carpenters sound bad. Hearing Karen sing always gave me chills.

One of my favorites to sing along with was “Rainy Days and Mondays.” I liked to double Karen’s voice, but on a different note, pretending to be her backup singer. I couldn’t resist singing along to the beauty of her voice, but I wanted to hear her, not sing over her notes. I tried to follow Karen’s lead part by following the melody line like a shadow. The blend felt so satisfying to me. My mother, however, was taken aback.

“Eilleen!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“This part’s more interesting,” I explained. I loved to harmonize, and couldn’t get enough of listening to pristine and sometimes complex vocal arrangements executed ingeniously by artists such as the Beach Boys, the Mamas and the Papas, Bread, and the Bee Gees, to name a few. Later, in my teens, I would study other groups known for their multipart harmonies: the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, the Doobie Brothers, Earth, Wind & Fire, ABBA. And more Bee Gees—it’s hard to top the three brothers’ combination of talent and the similar voice quality that comes from sharing DNA.

Although my preference was to always take the harmony part, my mother encouraged me to sing lead. “You’re my little singer, not my little
backup
singer,” was her reasoning. The urge I felt to go straight to the harmony parts so often, I believe, was probably a true reflection of my personality. An aspect of my nature that preferred being in the company of others to enjoy my singing. I appreciated the concept of group singing, the team spirit and group effort, especially once I learned to play guitar at eight years old.

I became more influenced by singer-songwriter-type artists who accompanied themselves on acoustic guitar. This allowed for a more intimate group sound that I would say has made the biggest impression on my acoustic-style songwriting. When I plunk out songs on the piano, as I don’t actually play piano but use it as a songwriting tool,
my melodies and feel are very different from when I use the guitar. Guitarist-songwriters such as Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, Gordon Lightfoot, and Jim Croce impacted my writing, but I think the group artists did even more. Bands such as the Poppy Family and Crosby, Stills and Nash drove me crazy with creative inspiration, like the sky was the limit, and I loved their songwriting and the three individual voices they put together to create a cluster of sound. I just couldn’t believe it, I was so amazed.

This was really where my heart was, singing words and melodies that sit with ease in my throat. I strive for this again now. I got away from the more organic way of using my voice when I began singing live, commercial rock in my late teens and am only getting back to the folkish, acoustic artist style of singing I enjoy singing the most. I will always be a great fan of the voice that expresses itself with no inhibition of imperfection. The concern to vocalize emotion without flaw, I believe, only obstructs the flow of honesty and integrity in the expression. I have a great appreciation for classical music, which in my experience, through the bit of exposure I’ve had on and off over the years through vocal lessons and having dated a classical orchestra conductor, has made me realize that there is little room for improvisation or personal adaptation. I admire the complexity in the compositions of classical music and also the incredible discipline it requires to execute a high standard of performance, but my favorite piece of music written by a classical musician is the film score from
The Mission
. I don’t believe it’s considered “classical,” but rather a soundtrack for a Hollywood movie. Nevertheless, it’s a symphony of masterfully combined sounds that appeals to me in the same vein as classical music. The creative and unique approach Ennio Morricone took with
The Mission
soundtrack was what I consider “contemporary classical,” but I don’t believe it is actually called that, technically.

Although my taste in music was broad from the beginning, my own personal style continued to develop more in the vein of an acoustic singer-songwriter. The song I chose to sing to my first-grade class was called “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” The response wasn’t
at all what I’d expected. Some of the kids started snickering and giggling. I was so embarrassed that I came
this
close to stopping midsong and bolting out of the room in tears. But it seemed too late to give up, so I finished, much to my relief, although I distinctly remember feeling that I never wanted to sing in front of my peers again! However, the children’s cruelty didn’t end there. On the playground that afternoon, some of them ridiculed me, calling me a show-off. I couldn’t understand it. My family always enjoyed it when I sang and never gave me the impression that I was “showing off.” In fact, they
wanted
me to sing for them.

My traumatic public debut at show-and-tell was pretty disheartening, to tell you the truth, but I loved music too much to let it discourage me from singing. The same year during first grade, I joined the school choir, figuring that singing as part of a group probably couldn’t be too bad. Plus, there’d be a lot of harmonizing; I liked that. Without my mother’s pushing me, though, I might not have tried out. She accompanied me to school for the evening audition in front of the music teacher who directed the choir. First, I had to sing solo, then with the full ensemble. I didn’t know anything about singing in a choir. I didn’t understand how to
not
improvise the notes. It was awkward being told exactly what part to sing and being expected to remain strictly in unison with the several other voices on my same part: melody. Despite my obvious lack of experience, the director was visibly impressed by my voice and accepted me, even though I was one year below the minimum-age cutoff. That made some kids jealous and their parents annoyed. Once again, I heard calls of “show-off!” and accusations that I craved attention. The last thing I wanted was to stand out from the group of singers. I wanted to blend in like everyone else. I also wanted to explain that I sang simply because I enjoyed it, just like they might have played soccer or taken riding lessons. By this point, I felt targeted and bullied for being good at something. Being the “little singer” wasn’t so fun. Not a good start to a career that would dominate the next few decades of my life.

This little house shook when there was a physical ruckus going on inside. There wasn’t much space, so during a struggle, there was lots of banging into things and no room to avoid tumbling into furniture and corners. My parents once had an argument during a birthday celebration for my dad. My mom had surprised him by baking a spice cake. I loved her spice cake! It had an apple-cinnamon flavor with vanilla icing. But this day, they began fighting, and it soon became a physical struggle. At the sound of their yelling, I poked my head around the corner and saw this peculiar brownish stuff on my mother’s head and face and I immediately thought of a scary movie I’d seen once, where a knife thrower, as part of a circus stunt, threw knives at a spinning wheel that had a woman strapped to it. He hit the woman right in the neck, cutting her throat open. It was an old movie with cheap visual effects, and in that scene, a brownish, mince-type stuffing came out of her wound. Although it wasn’t very convincing as real bodily insides coming out, the texture I now saw caked on my mother reminded me of it. I panicked.
Her brains are coming out! She’s going to die! He’s killed her!
I was convinced that my mother was dead. But what I saw wasn’t the minced insides; six-year-old me had jumped to conclusions. It was the birthday cake she’d baked for him, which he’d thrown in her face. I felt conflicting emotions: relief that my mom
was okay, but sadness, too. How could he be so mean and humiliate her like that after she’d done something so nice for him and gone to the trouble of baking him this delicious cake?

But the Bannerman Street house saw far worse fights than that. During my mother’s pregnancy on Bannerman, far into her last term, as I remember her tummy being well pronounced already, they got into an angry spat, and Jerry tossed her around the room like a rag doll, banged her head against the wall, and then kicked her while she was on the floor and curled up, trying to protect her stomach. I didn’t know anything about pregnancy, but it was instinctively obvious to me that if you beat the shit out of a woman with a baby in her belly, you could hurt—or kill—the baby. Thankfully, both of them lived.

Between the beatings from my dad, living in a cramped house with four kids, one of them an infant, and money being tight as usual, my mother was increasingly edgy. Adding to the stress, Grandma Eileen was in the hospital dying. I don’t remember why my grandmother no longer lived with us by the time I was six. I do remember my mother being very stressed after coming home from hospital visits to my grandmother, very emotional about how helpless she felt not being able to stay with her through the night, and deeply distressed that the nurses couldn’t give my grandmother water when she was so parched and desperate to drink. Apparently with her heart condition, angina, and the treatment she was under, a very limited liquid intake was necessary, as my mother explained. It hurt her so much to see her own mother suffering.