He meant well. He really did. “Have you ever considered a nose job?” He said it with great delicacy and care, feeling it would improve my chances of succeeding in bigger market cities as a jazz singer. My response was measured, “I hadn’t considered it, but wouldn’t rule it out.” He went on to share the long list of performers he knew that had, including himself. “Why do you think I look so young?” I had to admit, for his age, he did look good.
I have my beloved father’s nose – an Irish nose, a not-small nose
that shows no sign of shrinking with age. It never bothered me. Or, hadn’t –
until now.
I am 51 years old. Many of those years were spent in
self-loathing and holding myself up to unattainable, model-like standards. I
had a love-hate relationship with my body and it held me hostage from doing the
thing I loved the most – singing jazz, instead, spending 12 years as a folk
singer, a safe place where an ugly duckling like myself could hide.
It was only after a painful divorce that I learned to
embrace and love my form in all its glory, with all its flaws, and three years
ago switched from singing original folk music to jazz – finally feeling sexy and
confident enough to get out from behind the guitar and sing the music I was born to sing.
Last January I quit my pleasant, secure day job to become a
full-time singer. In addition to the loss of a respectable income and benefits,
I have paid a very high price to make this change; I take voice lessons from two
coaches, work weekly with a pianist/arranger to build my repertoire, read books
on music, study classic recordings and sing for hours in the basement, car and
bathroom.
Each and every gig is widely promoted with e-mail, Facebook,
posters and press releases. On some gigs I compensate my musicians from my own
pocket – just for the exposure. Perhaps this nose suggestion could be filed in
the “price I have to pay” column.
The doctor was highly regarded. He answered every question
with intelligence and thoughtfulness. By his reckoning, he had performed more
rhinoplasties than anyone in the area. I knew one of his
patients, and his work was subtle and attractive. He did not overpromise. This was
the guy.
I recently attended a benefit that featured a number of
vocal acts from New York City. All of them were smooth and polished – many of
the singers were beautiful, svelte and dewy-fresh. All were attractive, had
stage presence and some had great patter, astounding ranges and vocal clarity.
And, while I enjoyed their performances and derived many good tips, the biggest
treat of the night unexpectedly came from an outlyer.
He was the opening act bandleader – a well-known, local horn
player. This man is not conventionally attractive. He weighs well over 300 lbs.
and is around 60 years old. As a lark, he presented a song.
He moved slowly and painfully, but sang Little Girl Blue
with pathos – his voice soaring to a glorious falsetto, in turn brassy and
bold, then dropping to an intimate, paper-thin whisper. “Why won't somebody send a
tender blue boy to cheer up little girl blue.” I was stunned. I could not close
my mouth or stop smiling. That night, he was the sexiest man on the stage and it was his performance that stayed with me the most.
As I
lay in bed that night reviewing the performances, I began to think of why I
loved my favorite vocalists. Jeri Southern, an obscure singer from the 50’s,
touched me with her intimate vocals and vulnerability. Canadian folk singer
Bruce Cockburn impressed me with his honesty and authenticity, Holly Cole, a
jazz singer from Toronto, blew me away with her originality and focus.
Alison Krauss drew me in with her silvery timbre and musicality, Ella, her warmth,
precision and tone, kd lang for her power and dynamic range. Mel Tormé seduced with his smooth style
and phrasing, Jane Monheit with her overall mastery, song selection and
interpretation.
Compiling
the list, I realized not one of them was a conventional beauty. More important,
as a fan, their looks were something I never once considered, loving them instead for
their artistry, humanity and talent. I respect their work ethic, dogged
attention to detail and professionalism and admire their bravery and creativity.
I do
not care about their noses.
If I
don’t succeed as a jazz singer, I suspect it will be because I have wearied
from the immense amount of work it takes to be great with so little an initial
return. Or, it will be the drain of preparing books and setting up sound
equipment, or lack of venues for serious jazz. Possibly it will be the ridiculous
amount of work it takes to promote a gig and get a crowd, or living in a small
market city. It may even be due to having reached a creative block, beyond
which I can’t go.
I
don’t think it will be about my nose.
Monday
morning, I’ll call the good nose doctor and cancel my pre-op appointment. And then,
like most days, I’ll go down to the basement, open my book of tunes, and start working – hard.
