I was the guitarist in my a cappella group

and, yes, I know that's technically not possible

I love a cappella. I love it so much that I was an avid listener of WERS’ now-departed Saturday afternoon a cappella radio show. I love it so much that my favorite song on my excellent pre-race psych-up playlist is U2’s City of Blinding Lights. . . sung by the Tufts Beelzebubs.¹ In college, I was a four-year member of the Mischords², at the time the only group on campus for women. I’ve attended most of the Mischords reunions. Hardly anyone comes from my years, but we all rehearse the songs that endure in the set lists, and learn new songs—by ear, always by ear—from the younger alums.

Also, I was the guitarist for the Mischords for two of those years, and, yes, I know that’s a bit strange but it was the early ‘80s and we did things differently. Uncle John’s Band? California Dreamin’? I rest my case.

I love a cappella so much that I still occasionally search for a recording of George Michael’s Freedom as I heard it sung by the men’s group at one of the reunion concerts at my college. It was that good.

My love of a cappella made it a no-brainer that, when the first weekend in April freed up from a work event, I knew what I had to do. On April 5, I’ll be joining singers from all the college’s a cappella groups (now numbering more than six), plus alumni from all groups, in a day of workshops, rehearsals, and then an evening concert. All of it to be taught/run by someone who is a prominent creative figure in the a cappella world and who has been involved in some efforts recently that have made us all acca-familiar with music created with only voice as instrument.

Now that I know I can attend the reunion, I’ve begun training my instrument, practicing. I’ve been swapping out audiobooks in the car for CDs to sing along to. Given that I hardly ever use my car, I need to carve out airtime on the speakers at home for music to join in on. I was always an alto, but now I’ve (cough) lost a tad bit of my range that I need to get back.

A few years ago, I took singing classes for the first time in my life and learned a little about how to control my breathing. The key is to relax—which is hard to do if you’re worried you’re not going to hit a particular note. You know that note is coming, here it comes, there it is. . . and you strain and try, and it sounds awful. On pitch, sure. But not pleasant.

But if you’re like me, you have songs that you can sing, every single time, perfectly, without straining for a single note, even though they’re a bit out of what you consider your range. Do you have a song like that? I do, and it’s hands down Joni Mitchell’s Song for Sharon. I don’t care how bad a cold I have, or how many higher notes I’ve ceded to wherever it is they go: if Song for Sharon is playing, I can sing it. Note-perfect, word-perfect, inflection-perfect, matched to Joni’s every hesitation. Every time.³

Why? Because I’ve been singing along to it for 49 years. I don’t stress over the song. I don’t worry if I’m going to reach a note. Since I’m relaxed, I end up supporting my breath, and that supported breath makes the higher notes (all of them, actually) come out fine. It’s a question of trust. To sing your best, you have to relax, remaining confident that you can do the thing you want to do (in this case, hit that note). You have to use confidence to convert your effort into ease—precisely so that your effort can pay off.

Are there more vulnerable forms of artistic creation than singing? And more powerful? I think not. Singing is breathing and we all know how to breathe. And yet when a person switches from speaking to song, it’s a transformation. It’s an announcement of self, really, a huge assertion of confidence, to step into an expression that instantly elevates breathing or plain speech into something with the potential to become even transcendent (Just listen to Kiri Te Kanawa singing opera and see if you don’t agree. Or Cynthia Erivo, right?!). It’s not unlike the instant transformation from prosaic to elegant that you see when a person steps onto a skating rink (like the Joni of the Hejira album-cover image you can see above). A trod instantly becomes a glide.

Singing is a huge dare. Whether you’re just softly joining in to the song playing in the coffee shop, or belting it out in the shower, it’s an inherently bold thing to do.

Singing in a group takes that dare and turns it into a jubilation. Even if it’s a melancholy piece of music, the simple fact that you’re singing with others, following cues you can’t speak to each other but have to intuit (because you’re all too busy singing!), turns the experience into a triumph. Group singing like this is a sort of team sport as art—which turns the inherent vulnerability of the individual voice and protects it, through community, that creates art.

I have three weeks to train my voice ahead of the grand a cappella reunion. Three weeks to practice relaxing. My goal is to feel at ease about being bold, and then trusting to my vocal teammates that we’ll support each other every song.

• Are you an a cappella fan?

• Even if you’re not, do you have a song you can sing perfectly every time?

• What’s your karaoke song?

1. For the uninitiated, that’s their men’s a cappella group.

2. I cannot be held responsible for this name. It is a creature of 1962, the founding year of the group, and who knows who is to blame for that weirdly retrograde and decidedly un-hippyish moniker.

3. In a future singing-is-a-sport newsletter, I should probably take up the topic of note-perfect repetition vs. interpretive covers that veer from the original.