I bombed my friend's birthday
11/23/2008

I bombed my friend's birthday

My friend Laura asked me and several other aspiring songstresses to sing at her 50th birthday party.  "Sure!  I'd love to!" I told her.  Nevermind that I hadn't been singing regularly for several months, nor that I've only sung publicly on a handful of occasions--ever.   Since no one is going to pay me to sing professionally, I--like Laura--am thrilled to be ALLOWED to sing in public.

I wasn't even worried about what I would sing.  The night before the big event I saw George, the keyboardist who would play at Laura's party.  How about Rickie Lee Jones' "Chuck E.'s In Love"?  George knew the song; I knew the song.  We sang it through once.  Cool!  Good to go.

The next night I drove to the party, singing along with the song on CD once or twice.  No problem.  I arrived at my destination--a local coffehouse.  Friends and freaks of all ages are crowding into the narrow space.  Fire spinners perform outside.  Everyone mixes and mingles for an hour, and then it's show time.

Laura sits in a throne chair, front and center, while her high school-aged kids and their friends perform a rap song on her behalf.  Next, our mutual friend Jett takes the stage and does a sultry clothes-on "strip tease" while ad-libbing the words to "Summertime" in tribute to Laura.  Then it's my turn.

I step onto the stage, take the microphone from its stand, smile at the expectant audience, wait for George's intro, and launch into, "How come he don't come..." 

What a shock to hear my voice come out high and thin.  THAT''s not right.  Why is my voice not following the tune...OR the beat?  Is my voice just AWOL tonight?  What's going on?   Am I behind?  I try speeding up.  No, that's worse.  I try slowing down.  Now I'm hopelessly lost...and so are George and the drummer. 

I stop, turn to George and say, "Let's try again."

"OK," George says, not looking too happy about it.  Why doesn't someone just ring a giant gong and pull me from the stage?

George waits for me.  I begin again.  Really, it's no better this time, but I can see in the faces of my audience that they're hoping like hell I can make it through so we can all be saved further embarrassment.  I don't even know if I'm singing the right words now.  Is there a "Chuck E's in love" chorus before the end and I've forgotten it?  I didn't bring the sheet music, or the words, so there's no way to find out.  Laura's smiling stoically.  Other friends look grim, but there's nothing they can do to help me.  I'm stuck in a moment and I can't get out of it.  I'd hoped to jazz things up; make the mood fun; lift everyone's spirits with something light-hearted.  Instead, the only relief is when it's over.  It's over.  Thank God.  I smile a real smile this time, return the mike to its stand and step off the stage.

My sister Jackie envelopes me with a hug, and I sit down, grateful to share a chair with her so I don't have to wade through suddenly shy audience members who don't want to return my gaze.   The rest of the night passes, filled with FABULOUS performances by my sister and other creative, caring friends.  A few people are kind to me, like people are kind to the handicapped.  I'm too alienated from myself to conduct a normal conversation, or even dance as the crowd thins out. 

I bombed at my friend's birthday party.  The recriminations continue for the next 24 hours.  Why didn't I sing a song TO Laura...a song like "I hope you dance"?  Why didn't I practice more?  Why did I think I could walk onstage with so little practice and pull it off like a professional?

In my bed that night I have a shame flashback everytime I wake up to turn over.  Aaarrggghhh!!!!  I was horrible!  Instead of entertaining Laura's guests, I made them suffer!!!   Terrible!!!

And yet...and yet.  Sorry as I am that I wasn't able to sing the song the way I wanted to sing it, there's this chirpy little voice inside me that--even when I was up on stage bombing--keeps calmly reminding me that bombing is what sometimes happens.  Even professionals sometimes bomb.  Carole King fell off the stage.  Van Morrison got so disgusted that he walked off.  An aging Percy Sledge lip-synced the high notes.  You bomb.  It happens.

In The Power of Now, Eckhart Tolle suggests we practice noticing the things our ego gets all worked up about and realizing that it's just our ego in an uproar, not us.  Although I don't always feel inclined to follow Tolle's advice when I've done well, when I've bombed, let me tell you, it's a big relief to think, "Oh, that's just my ego that had to eat that double-humiliation sandwich with extra onions and special sauce. 

"Not me." 

Still, will Laura ever ask me to sing at her birthday again?

If she does, you can bet I'll practice.