If you’re gonna sing, you want to be heard

Find your perch and let it rip

April 14, 2021
Tufted Titmouse
Photo taken in Durham, North Carolina

As I shuffled out to the front porch with my laptop and a potent beverage to do some writing, I was somewhat surprised to hear the song of a tufted titmouse echoing through the oak-lined streets of Willowbank, my neighborhood here in Georgetown. “What’s he doing up this late? It’s 10:30 p.m. He should be long tucked into bed.” 

Upon further reflection, I recalled reading about evidence that the discordant industrial symphony of our modern world has forced many a bird to evolve a different strategy; for example, singing late into the evening. His signature song of “peter, peter, peter” is completely drowned out during daylight hours by the incessant hum of traffic, the rattle of the power washer, the whirr of the weed-whacker, and the whine of the leaf blower. At night, he’s got a chance. If you’re gonna sing, you want to be heard.

Bird nerd tangent: My dad moved from Alameda, California to Rome, Georgia at a time that coincided with my initial interest in birding. On a visit, I got to meet his local birds, whose songs were entirely absent in the western United States. Eastern phoebes buzzing their name, “fee-bee”, the “chip, chip” of the northern cardinal, the trumpet blare of blue jays soaring overhead, or the police siren sound of the Carolina wren. Months later, back in Oregon, I was watching final-round coverage of the Masters golf tournament, which famously takes place in Augusta, Georgia. Jordan Spieth is eyeing up an important putt, the crowd is hushed, Jim Nance is reverently whispering his commentary, but what I focus on is the unmistakable song of a tufted titmouse calling from the nearby trees at Augusta National. I wonder how a titmouse would look in a little green jacket? Now I’m picturing golf course birds, halfway up a tree, and alongside them, tiny bird caddies in white jumpsuits advising from which branch to sing. “The wind’s blowin’ outta the northeast at 6 mph, so I say sing from the third branch on the left and your song will easily carry the 170 yards to get ‘cross that pond.” But I digress.

If you’re gonna sing, you want to be heard. I used to assert this was a very basic human trait, but in light of recent observation, I now consider it to be much more universal – not just limited to homo sapiens with an acoustic guitar, a YouTube channel, and heretofore unexpressed feelings.

Having plied my trade in the early days playing and singing in coffeehouses and bars, I knew exactly where that titmouse was coming from. With most working gigs in the music industry, you are relegated to providing a pleasing audio background, helping create an ambience in a bar, cafe, or restaurant. You know, the way that Muzak used to really jazz up an elevator ride from “parking level 2” to “fourth floor, women’s clothing”. I understand the utility of my role in this environment, but it can be demeaning to think of yourself as just a lowly component of a collective atmosphere. That your artistic contribution to the world is but a box on a checklist that reads, “jasmine-scented candles, chic mood lighting, stress-reducing carpet pattern, someone in the corner singing live music.” It can be emotionally taxing to sing one’s song upstream, against a powerful current of espresso makers, video lottery machines, and the din of chatter created by couples on first dates (“Oh my god, you love Liam Neeson too?”), or thousandth dates (“Are you gonna finish that chicken?”), lifelong friends catching up (“You look amazing!”), or fans cheering and jeering at a televised sporting event (“Why do I even watch Blazer playoff games?!”) If you’re gonna sing, you want to be heard.

As a young entrepreneur, I designed Tony Starlight’s Supperclub & Lounge to be a place where singers’ needs were prioritized and sacrosanct. We created an atmosphere where those who stepped onto our stage would be heard. Performing on that stage for nine years, followed by five more at Tony Starlight Showroom, I have been spoiled. Now, as I diversify my career into new territory, I embark on another journey where maybe they’ll listen, and maybe they won’t. Maybe they didn’t necessarily come out to hear some Oregon transplant rasp his way through the Neil Diamond songbook, belt out a litany of TV theme songs, and tell corny jokes like “Oregon transplant” (you gotta admit, that’s a pretty great line!). Maybe all they want are good food, strong drinks, engaging conversation, and ambience. Can I handle this new role with grace? Will I embody the advice of comedian Steve Martin, “Be so good they can’t ignore you”? I’ll find a way to do both.

Whatever the situation, I’m just grateful to have a perch from which to sing my song. And I’m eager to meet the people whose ears will be listening, whether they like it or not. If I’m gonna sing, I want to be heard.

SHAMELESS PLUG: Later this month, I’ll be starting a series of Thursday night performances at Root Restaurant, 919 Front St., Georgetown, South Carolina. I invite you, oops, I mean “y’all”, to come on out and listen.