At four minutes past eight in the evening, it is raining. Outside, our neighbors are caterwauling, which is the least bit of comfort one can receive after another day spent trying to understand what the law says in letter or in spirit. Take your pick. With microphone on one hand and beer on another, I hear that song again, but this time the lyrics are sung far worse than the nights that went before. From where I sit, I can see nobody dancing but I speculate the guy must be gyrating behind plain sight. With no Katrina wiping the sweat off the edges of his skin, what more had there been one, or a close semblance to one. I wonder why they do not hold singing contests in this forgotten artery of the metro. You really have to wonder, too, how idle times transform ordinary lives into something more or less than what you would expect. At the end of yet another hectic day, it's quite enough to reward yourself in your own liking.
No amount of deluge can uproot them from their seats. The videoke is one of the few remaining luxuries in a place where shades of poverty stare you right in the face. I can understand why the folks here do not mind spending long hours in front of the machine and trying to break the veins in their necks in the hope of perfectly seizing that ever elusive high note. Despite the bad weather, you've got to hand it to them, if not for the singing at least for the effort. Who in his sane mind would not want to relax after enduring the necessary troubles of the day? More to the point, who in his sane mind would not want to relax when confronted with the fact of life that tomorrow is another day that will bring much of the same difference?
They caterwaul, or shriek like cats desperate for supper or for a mate, some preferring the latter more than the former. They sing not because they want to sing like the sopranos of an ensemble. They sing not because they want to appease their neighbors, which is perhaps the worst reason they could ever give to justify the usual horrors set forth by tones and tunes that are yet to be explained by sound engineers. They sing not because they want to share their fleeting moments of nirvana, although one can say it might go with the entire ordeal as an unsolicited consolation. Simply, they sing because they want to. And there is no one in the world that can stop them from doing as they please.
Well, except maybe the police, but that's another story.
I do not recall now the first time I had the shot of pouncing upon the microphone like a child eager to land the first taste of candy. What I do recall is that every time my hands would clutch the microphone I feel different. If that is not weird or appalling enough, which is really not, wait until my mouth begins to let the words from the depths of my lungs freely escape. Freely. With no restraint, especially when beer has already taken hold of my senses. To this day, I've still taken it as a pearl of wisdom not to openly declare my intention to sing for no one has yet been able to stand my spirited cries over the microphone long enough. I can't sing well. Or maybe I just can't sing. God forbid, try me.
That being said, I'd rather play the instrument I am most familiar with, which is the guitar. Now this I remember very well. It was way back during the first year of my undergraduate studies when I first learned how to play the stringed instrument. Neither a strong inkling nor a deep curiosity urged me to pick it up the moment I first got acquainted with it. It was for the simple reason that I was the only one who has not yet been able to play the guitar in our dormitory's wing. It was short of being an outcast every time the night turned young and everybody else was strumming to their heart's content. Not wanting to be left behind by a wide mile, I took it a personal mission and challenge to learn the skill on my own. The long and short of the story is that it led me to where I am now. I have been in a band, and I believe I still am. I've tried almost every possible avenue for making the instrument talk and squeal and whisper and sound the way it should. While genuine passion for music knows no genre, I can say with confidence that I strongly feel for the blues.
But I must admit. Years before my fingers began to fret the "devil's music" to some, or the "slave's music" to others, I was the typical teenager whose eyes shimmered and ears rang whenever the radio jockey played Backstreet Boys, or Westlife, or Boyzone. I would scurry forth and find the nearest "song hits" which littered our house back then and, soon enough, I would sing along like a pious sheep in the congregation of habitual sinners. Looking back, I never imagined myself to eventually awaken from that slumber and wake-up one day finding myself singing, or playing, the blues. While there are tons of reasons to say that comparing Ronan Keating with Robert Johnson is like comparing oranges to apples, or white boys to black men, I do not find it less enticing or least appropriate to say that the blues is far deeper and soulful than anything I have ever heard in my life. With the exception, of course, of the woes of my beloved mother and father to whom I owe my life more than anybody else.
There's no telling when the rain will stop. A storm is on the brink of exploding mayhem and the folks from the house opposite the side of the road where our humble shack stands are busy trying to nail whatever score they may land. Will they get a perfect one? Perhaps. Or maybe not. Either way, they could only care less about being a wonderful or a wandering singer. They sing because they just want to. Never mind singing "en-didit mai wei" in place of the proper enunciation of the words. It all stands well enough. Never mind singing "da kirlis wespirs ob a gud prend" in place of the right way of saying it. It all stands good enough. Never mind singing all the wrong words when all that matters is singing. More so, never mind anything at all.
The voices are far from comforting the afflicted. They're everywhere near to doing the exact opposite, which is afflicting the comfortable. But still, I envy them.
No amount of deluge can uproot them from their seats. The videoke is one of the few remaining luxuries in a place where shades of poverty stare you right in the face. I can understand why the folks here do not mind spending long hours in front of the machine and trying to break the veins in their necks in the hope of perfectly seizing that ever elusive high note. Despite the bad weather, you've got to hand it to them, if not for the singing at least for the effort. Who in his sane mind would not want to relax after enduring the necessary troubles of the day? More to the point, who in his sane mind would not want to relax when confronted with the fact of life that tomorrow is another day that will bring much of the same difference?
They caterwaul, or shriek like cats desperate for supper or for a mate, some preferring the latter more than the former. They sing not because they want to sing like the sopranos of an ensemble. They sing not because they want to appease their neighbors, which is perhaps the worst reason they could ever give to justify the usual horrors set forth by tones and tunes that are yet to be explained by sound engineers. They sing not because they want to share their fleeting moments of nirvana, although one can say it might go with the entire ordeal as an unsolicited consolation. Simply, they sing because they want to. And there is no one in the world that can stop them from doing as they please.
Well, except maybe the police, but that's another story.
I do not recall now the first time I had the shot of pouncing upon the microphone like a child eager to land the first taste of candy. What I do recall is that every time my hands would clutch the microphone I feel different. If that is not weird or appalling enough, which is really not, wait until my mouth begins to let the words from the depths of my lungs freely escape. Freely. With no restraint, especially when beer has already taken hold of my senses. To this day, I've still taken it as a pearl of wisdom not to openly declare my intention to sing for no one has yet been able to stand my spirited cries over the microphone long enough. I can't sing well. Or maybe I just can't sing. God forbid, try me.
That being said, I'd rather play the instrument I am most familiar with, which is the guitar. Now this I remember very well. It was way back during the first year of my undergraduate studies when I first learned how to play the stringed instrument. Neither a strong inkling nor a deep curiosity urged me to pick it up the moment I first got acquainted with it. It was for the simple reason that I was the only one who has not yet been able to play the guitar in our dormitory's wing. It was short of being an outcast every time the night turned young and everybody else was strumming to their heart's content. Not wanting to be left behind by a wide mile, I took it a personal mission and challenge to learn the skill on my own. The long and short of the story is that it led me to where I am now. I have been in a band, and I believe I still am. I've tried almost every possible avenue for making the instrument talk and squeal and whisper and sound the way it should. While genuine passion for music knows no genre, I can say with confidence that I strongly feel for the blues.
But I must admit. Years before my fingers began to fret the "devil's music" to some, or the "slave's music" to others, I was the typical teenager whose eyes shimmered and ears rang whenever the radio jockey played Backstreet Boys, or Westlife, or Boyzone. I would scurry forth and find the nearest "song hits" which littered our house back then and, soon enough, I would sing along like a pious sheep in the congregation of habitual sinners. Looking back, I never imagined myself to eventually awaken from that slumber and wake-up one day finding myself singing, or playing, the blues. While there are tons of reasons to say that comparing Ronan Keating with Robert Johnson is like comparing oranges to apples, or white boys to black men, I do not find it less enticing or least appropriate to say that the blues is far deeper and soulful than anything I have ever heard in my life. With the exception, of course, of the woes of my beloved mother and father to whom I owe my life more than anybody else.
There's no telling when the rain will stop. A storm is on the brink of exploding mayhem and the folks from the house opposite the side of the road where our humble shack stands are busy trying to nail whatever score they may land. Will they get a perfect one? Perhaps. Or maybe not. Either way, they could only care less about being a wonderful or a wandering singer. They sing because they just want to. Never mind singing "en-didit mai wei" in place of the proper enunciation of the words. It all stands well enough. Never mind singing "da kirlis wespirs ob a gud prend" in place of the right way of saying it. It all stands good enough. Never mind singing all the wrong words when all that matters is singing. More so, never mind anything at all.
The voices are far from comforting the afflicted. They're everywhere near to doing the exact opposite, which is afflicting the comfortable. But still, I envy them.
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