Falling in love with a singer is like being a teenager every time it happens. It’s as if they’ve fooled us into loving them, diddled our hard-wiring, located a vulnerability we thought we’d long ago armored over. If one of the weird things about singers is the ecstasy of surrender they inspire, another weird thing is the debunking response a singer can arouse once we’ve recovered our senses. The beauty of the singer’s voice touches us in a place that’s as personal as the place from which that voice has issued. Those two folks, a handful of others: their soul-burps are, for me, the soul-burps of the gods. Conversely, nothing in the vocal limitations of a Lou Reed guarantees a “Pale Blue Eyes” every time out, any more than singing as crazy-clumsy as Tom Waits guarantees a “Downtown Train.” Yet there’s a certain time-tested sturdiness to the lowchops approach forged by touchstone figures like Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison and Jonathan Richman, one that helps define rock & roll singing.įor me, Bob Dylan and Patti Smith, just to mention two, are superb singers by any measure I could ever care about - expressivity, surprise, soul, grain, interpretive wit, angle of vision.
How helplessly candid! How appalling!Ĭontrary to anything you’ve heard, the ability to actually carry a tune is in no regard a disability in becoming a rock & roll singer, only a mild disadvantage. Summoned through belly, hammered into form by the throat, given propulsion by bellows of lungs, teased into final form by tongue and lips, a vocal is a kind of audible kiss, a blurted confession, a soul-burp you really can’t keep from issuing as you make your way through the material world.
There’s something a bout a voice that’s personal, not unlike the particular odor or shape of a given human body.
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