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Sour note mars proud moment
By Lougee Basabas
Inquirer News Service
"I HAVE five minutes to finish my piece then I shall never
hold a microphone again," I reassured myself as I anxiously
waited for the keywords that would mark the beginning of my agony.
I felt so unsure of myself and doubted whether the 10 glasses
of the ever so trusted salabat I had earlier that day would work
their wonders.
I was always insecure when it came to singing. I'm really not
a born singer, I just don't have the gift. Singing, I thought,
would forever be just a fantasy.
"Thank you so much and God bless you all!" Those words
rang in my ears as the music came to an end. I saw my competitor
giving the crowd a final grand gesture then turning to me and
giving me a sarcastic wink, as if daring me to do better.
It was the cue for me to go up the stage. It was too late to run
away. My feet seemed to be glued to the floor. When my name was
called, I knew there was no turning back.
I struggled to stand up and forced a smile on my face. Everyone
was looking at me as if ready to pass judgment. I walked what
seemed like endless steps to the stage, my legs feeling more jelly-like
with each stride.
Mental block
I held the microphone tightly with my sweaty palm as I tried to
recall the lines of my song. That's when nervousness was at its
worst. Everything seemed jumbled up. I began to panic and couldn't
believe I forgot the first line of "Looking Through the Eyes
of Love" when I spent almost a
week practicing the stupid song.
The intro was played and I felt so alone that I wanted to cry.
I looked for the people who betrayed me by putting me in such
situation -- my voice trainer, who disappeared all of a sudden,
and my mom, who dragged me to the music school. She gave me that
"c'mon-and-make-me-proud" look.
My parents actually never thought I could ever sing. When I was
a kid, they used to laugh at me each time I belted one of my favorite
Madonna songs, "Papa Don't Preach." Everybody used to
say that my voice was like that of a moaning cow.
I sang for a children's choir in our parish when I was 11, but
I didn't think I contributed to the harmony of the group. I simply
went there to check out the cute sacristans.
I couldn't even remember how and when I realized that I had learned
to sing. All I could recall was that the teasing eventually stopped
and they started asking me to sing in family reunions. My mom
became pleased that she enrolled me in a music school in Las Piñas.
And there I was, at the final stage of my course -- the recital
-- performing for the very first time in front of a huge crowd.
I then realized that I already missed the first three lines of
the song. The silence was deafening. I could hear the distorted
sound of the minus-one playing. The crowd looked even more intimidating.
I tried to catch up though my heart beat like crazy and my stomach
started doing a flip-flop.
Gaining confidence
It wasn't until toward the middle of the song that I started to
loosen up a bit. I tried to imagine myself singing alone in the
shower, not caring. I gradually relaxed and sang the song with
conviction. I also grew more and more confident and started to
feel like I owned the stage.
But the final part would either make or break my singing career.
The crowd became even more silent, anticipating the climax of
the song. So sure of myself, I breathed in and delivered "...looking
through the eyes...ooof...looooo-a-a-aave..." in a big awful
sound that seemed more like a squeal. I sounded like a broken
cello. However, although I was so embarrassed, still I held my
head high, smiled and bowed.
I ran straight to the comfort room, wanting to die of shame. My
mom followed, gave me a big hug and told me how proud she was.
My coach finally showed up when I was about to leave. She congratulated
me and told me that I would go a long way by simply believing
in myself. I couldn't understand at first what made her say that,
but I never forgot those words even now.
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