My final professional gig as a singer (and I qualify that because I still sing at my church home, where it’s a different offering altogether from being a gigging musician) was June 27, 2024, playing a concert with the funnest project I’ve ever been a part of, the Orchestre Surreal. I’d been with that outfit longer than any other. It is unique and wild in a very goofy, brilliant way. It was fun as hell for 28 years. And it was the way I wanted to jump out of this main act of my life and dive into my Act 3.
This right here marks the first that I’ve said publicly about why I chose to retire from singing. I’ve just not wanted any kind of pity party, or to feel as though my confessions would’ve been designed to coax on the “No, you still sound fabulous!”-es or whatever. I just wanted to have a mega-meaningful final showdown, and then move on. And I got to have that in spades.
The reason I chose to retire was because the writing had been on the wall for a good 7-8 years prior that my singing voice was not moving into old age with very much grace, or spine, or muscle, or gumption, or however one sees these things. It had become a wilting flower. At first, a snail’s pace. Only I could hear it and feel it; it was imperceptible to anyone else. Then over time, it became more noticeable, and I started to feel the complete lack of control I was having over that splendid muscle that is our vocal cords. I mean, I’d always been aces at hitting a pure note, tamping down my vibrato upon stylistic command, no wavering, no pitchiness. I had nuance and subtlety. I could sculpt a song. But no more. Really tough to sing jazz without vocal nuance (if I was content to just sing some blues or rock in bars, and blast it out, I could’ve bought myself another 10 years). Bending a studied note with precision skill? Phrasing? It all just seemed to disappear. I couldn’t understand it, to my great frustration. I thought, “I haven’t stopped using it. I’m singing more than ever before. So, it’s not a case of like when people stop exercising and the muscle tone goes away and gets weaker. I’m workin’ the hell outta these cords. What gives???” It got to where I had to start taking certain songs off my list that any gig leader will call from when it’s my time to sing. Or I’d lower the key of certain other songs. Each particular adjustment would depend on what the specific struggle was when I’d sing a given song.
The thing is, none of this baffling phenomenon was about losing my range. I’ve kept the range for the most part. I never had much of one to begin with. Never been the showy singer (except with the Orchestre Surreal) or the acrobatic singer. Didn’t have the crazy, sky-high notes, or the gaudy melismas. But also, early on in my career I got vocal nodules and was told not to sing for 6 months. And at the time I was waiting tables and not singing for my living, so I could afford to lay off. The nodules weren’t severe enough to require surgery or laser treatments, simply rest.
When the voice slowly but surely came back, the one thing that never did return was my falsetto. And I was told I could nurse that back with some voice lessons and exercises, but I didn’t bite. Mainly because I never had money for vocal lessons on a waitress’ paycheck. So, I sufficed to live with only a chest voice and a limited range. I could live with a small range, because I decided that instead of any kind of vocal prowess (and vocal acrobatics never had any pull for me anyway) I would instead focus on honing my skills as an actor. I’d just come out of my studies at an acting academy, and had some real chops. And I believed in that kind of singer anyway. Someone who could tap emotional stores that exist deeply inside. Someone who would bleed when singing. Singers who could gut-punch me were the ones I loved best. So, I decided to develop that muscle instead. And I think it has served me well.
But the long game, as it turns out, was going to be tough on my actual physical instrument. When the writing on the wall became a full-blown rebellion, I had just moved to Kansas City where I had hoped to continue singing. I was introduced to some musicians in this town early on in my arrival, thanks to my new friend (new at the time) woodwind player David Valdez, who set up some jam sessions expressly to introduce me to the community. And I did get a handful of gigs booked, including at the legendary Blue Room, which is connected to the Kansas City Museum of Jazz, and even a jazz festival with a wonderful octet led by woodwind player Ray Keller. They were very fun gigs, but the voice was quickly saying, “hey Angela, we’re not actually up for this anymore.” And the absolute last thing I wanted as a newbie in this town, after a robust 35-years amassing a respectable reputation in Los Angeles, was to be introduced to the insanely great Kansas City music scene donning this wilting flower of a voice. No thanks! So I abruptly stopped booking gigs. I’d gotten myself a day job (two, sort of), so I didn’t have to rely on gigging to pay bills, as I had in L.A., and that made the decision to stop a whole lot easier.
I’m not even sure I felt a whole lot of grief around it, to be honest, as all I really wanted to do any longer was write. I’ve actually been a writer my entire life, but it had always been a back burner pursuit, if on the stove at all, while I was being steadily employed as a vocalist, signed up with several contracting offices, constantly learning new music, writing charts, steadily expanding my repertoire, especially for party bands and casuals (private parties). It was a full-time indulgence. I wrote on the side, and I hustled literary agents (went through two of them) and chased publishing deals, and eventually just established my own publishing imprint and went the indie author route. Fuck ’em. I wasn’t going to keep waiting around for some giant to give me legitimacy.
Today, in this Act 3 of my life, I want writing to be on the front burner. The only burner. All the burners. So, I essentially started my life completely over at the ripe old age of 60. And then ended one career to start a new one at 64. That takes some nerve, if not necessarily common sense, and I’m fully embracing the nerve.
I do look back on my singing life, and, in wondering why my voice is largely failing me, I’ve come to some conclusions. But before I share what that is, let me explain that I say “largely failing me” because I can still eke out some adequate singing, if not with a stellar instrument, because I still have emotional expressions to offer. AND because I really want to continue singing at my church. It’s not gigging. It’s a spiritual offering. And I’ll do that for as long as they’ll have me, because I feel nothing but love and non-judgment coming from every single soul in this beautiful community that I have found to help keep my spiritual life alive and radiating.
Okay, so what I’ve come to realize about the current state of my singing voice is that I never took voice lessons. Never had a vocal coach. Never officially learned how to sing properly. Some intuitive lessons got learned once I recovered from the vocal nodes and got back to singing. I kind of had a sense of what not to do anymore, and I managed to get through a 35-year career on those instincts. But I’m certain I was using my voice (placement, breathing, etc.) incorrectly, and it would eventually prove to catch up with me.
Ever since social media has become a mainstay in our lives, I’ve seen and read a lot of opinions and sternly righteous admonishments from some vocalists toward other vocalists on the ills of having never learned to sing correctly. It’s almost a kind of “how dare you!” And all I have to offer is … you know what you know until you know better. The fateful decision to go through Door 1 instead of Door 2 unfolded for me when I was very young, and arrogant myself. I could sing, and I ended up spending the better part of my life doing it, getting paid for it, and booking it constantly. Not only gigs but recording sessions in film and television. And all that without a single voice lesson. So, in many ways, maybe I felt like I was getting away with something. I simply didn’t know what I didn’t know.
For awhile, in the present universe, when I would come across these admonishing Facebook posts, I’d find myself getting defensive. They’re never actually directed at me, so I never respond or contribute to the conversation threads. I just keep my defensiveness to myself. But I do wonder what their admonitions accomplish, other than making other singers (the ones like me whose voices are declining because we were never properly trained) feel horrible. It’s not like I can turn back the clock and do my life over. All I have is right now. And I’ve chosen to pivot my entire life in a different direction. And, more importantly, am loving the pivot.
Believe it or not, I’m a perfectionist. I know. How can you call yourself one if you never bothered to get some proper training for your voice? Like I said, I believed I was sailing along effortlessly without that help. But I also know it’s the Perfectionist in me that decided to stop singing if I couldn’t do it to a certain standard.
So, first off, a perfectionist is not someone who does everything perfectly all the time (is that even possible?). Perfectionism describes the mental state of obsessive-compulsive behaviors that pick at a thing we deem flawed or in need of perfecting, fastidiously, till it bleeds and scabs over. It’s a kind of unquenchable pursuit. And I have done that with a lot of things in my life. Almost to the point of sabotage. I just never did it with singing because I thought I was doing everything right. And then when it started its decline, I abandoned ship as fast as you could blink. That’s a perfectionist. “If I can’t do it well, I want out.”
And that makes me think about the great goddess Joni Mitchell, who sounds nothing today like she did in her younger years. That otherworldly faerie of a voice has become a deep, resonating canyon of rich minerals. She didn’t abandon ship. She reinvented. To a certain degree I did that when, early on after the nodes, I turned my attentions toward cultivating the emotional component of singing instead of fine-tuning the instrument itself. But when it began its decline in these latter years, I couldn’t bear no longer having the voice of my prime. Joni is brave, where I am not. It’s all a process.
I discovered my Inner Perfectionist working a 12-step program, and have been steadily, with the help of much inward-turning, self-examination, and climbing that 12-step staircase, transforming the perfectionism into (I believe) a healthier state of acceptance of my flaws, my mistakes, and my missteps in this life. I’m trying hard not to berate myself as much today as I have in the past, yet at the same time still maintaining a healthy sense of regret. Some may get their haunches up over that phrase, as I think we’ve become a culture that believes it’s healthier to have no regrets. Maybe that’s true. My gut tells me that a moderate level of it actually helps us to: not repeat the past, learn from our mistakes, and a whole bunch of other familiar tropes I think we all can agree are good ones to follow.
So, I’m learning to be self-forgiving. I can berate myself better than anyone else could. It doesn’t serve me. I like gentler me. And I also still have my moments, but I shut it down if I’m conscious enough to catch it.
The state of my perfectionism today is such that I’m actually beginning to embrace IMPERFECTION almost to the point of it being kind of like a spirit animal to me. I have no shame whatsoever now in saying, when asked why I retired from singing, when most of my singing peers are going stronger than ever, that I fucked up. A long time ago I fucked up. I wish I’d done it differently. I do have some regrets about that. And I guess a little bit of grief, after all. But only a little bit, as I couldn’t be happier having made the decision to turn all my burners on to this writing thing. Writing gives me life and always has. And Kansas City, especially, has embraced me for it. So, I’m on the right track. If there is even such a thing. I’m more inclined to believe we’re all just on tracks, period: many, a few, maybe only ever ONE like a hyper-focused beast of brilliance, and we do what we do on those tracks until we’re ready for some new ones.
So, now when I see these posts about what singers do wrong, I just smile, keep scrolling, try to channel a little Joni, and know that the choices I’ve made in my life (the good, the bad, the ugly, the head-slapping) have built me into who I am. And I kinda like her. She’s scrappy. She started her whole life and career over from scratch at an age when most are prepping for the cruises and the golf course. Is it bat shit crazy? Possibly so. In fact, probably so.
No kidding.
Bindi Girl Chronicles 