With American Idol season in full swing, as well as speculating whether Pia should have been eliminated, when Jacob will be voted off, and whether the finale will come down to Scotty vs. James, I also can’t help but think of my own brief moment in the spotlight when I sang my first—and last—solo in front of a large audience. Take a little walk with me down memory lane as I revisit my unforgettable singing debut.
It was the summer of ’78. I was a blithe seventeen-year-old. After seeing me sing a little ditty in a stake YW workshop, Sister G., the stake YW president, called and asked me to sing a solo at an upcoming regional YW conference. I accepted, neglecting to mention that besides that little song, I’d never sung a solo before and had never had any voice training. But I figured the singing invitation was equivalent to a calling so I shouldn’t turn it down. Besides, Sister G. must have been inspired when she asked me—she was the stake YW president, after all—and since the assignment was inspired, the Lord would help me magnify my calling, right?
Sister G. had selected a special song and dropped off the sheet music to me several weeks before the conference. I’d never heard it before—it was a new song entitled “I Choose This Day,” published a month or two before in the New Era. Since I couldn’t read music, I had no clue what the tune was like, but I figured I could learn it with a practice or two before the conference. How hard could the song be? It was summertime, and I was busy working at the local miniature golf course and going to the movies with my boyfriend, Ralph. A week before the conference I figured I’d better start practicing, so I called my friend Karen, who I’d asked to accompany me on the piano, and we met at the church to run through the song.
As Karen played the song and I heard it for the first time, my palms got a little sweaty as I realized that the notes in the song were a little too high in places for my mediocre voice—and a little too low in others. But I gamely plowed through. As I strained to hit a particularly high note, I saw Karen cringe.
“Um, when do you have to sing this?” she asked.
“Next Saturday.”
She swallowed. “Let’s run through it again.”
Would you believe that, besides a last-minute run-through right before the conference, that was the only practice we had? I was busy, it was summer, I had a boyfriend, blah, blah, blah. It was also too late to call Sister G. and tell her my voice was wrong for the song, that she should have asked someone else—someone who could actually sing. So, I ignored it. The morning of the conference I showed up at the church. I was surprised to see the cultural hall filled with chairs all the way back to the stage—how had the word “regional” escaped my notice? And the fact that Ruth Funk, the General YW President, was flying in from Salt Lake for the conference? Karen and I had another quick practice (I tried to ignore her looks of pity) and then it was time for the conference to begin.
I sat on the stand with Karen as girls and their mothers from three stakes packed the chapel and cultural hall. Our stake presidency sat to my right, along with the stake YW presidencies and Sister Funk. I looked at the program: I was slated to sing right before Sister Funk spoke. Sister G. had also scheduled another musical number right before mine—by Sister W., a professional singer, who had brought a violinist as well as a pianist to accompany her. I hadn’t even memorized the lyrics to my song—which is why I’d written them on index cards to hold discretely in the palm of my hand. I looked out over the sea of faces in the congregation and gulped.
Opening hymn, prayer, welcome—I didn’t hear any of it. Then Sister W. stood to sing. Accompanied by the sweet strains of the violin and piano, Sister W’s polished voice washed over the rapt congregation as she gave a flawless performance. Her last sweet note rang out clearly as she finished her song.
And then it was my turn.
Shaking, I approached the microphone, my throat dry and tight. Karen played the intro, but, confused and panicked, I forgot to come in on cue, so she played the intro again. I began, then strained to hit the second note—a high one—and my voice cracked. I saw my thirteen-year-old sister—who had heckled me all week about singing and was now sitting in the congregation next to my mother—lower her head. I looked down at my cue cards, heart pounding, and squeaked my way through the song, my voice barely audible. During the last verse I dared to look up at the congregation, went blank, and sang “La, la, la” for an entire line until I found my place again on the cue cards. I saw a couple of people smile and duck their heads. Screeching out one final flat note, I finished the song and sat down. A stunned silence followed, punctuated by a few nervous coughs. Sister Funk finally rose to speak.
Karen returned to my side. “It wasn’t that bad,” she whispered, patting my hand.
I didn’t see Sister G. after the meeting ended. A couple of people tried to compliment me on my performance, but it was my stake president who gave me the most tactfully honest feedback: shaking my hand after the meeting, he said with a wry smile, “That was a challenge, wasn’t it?”
I’m guessing that somewhere in Fresno, California Mormondom, my solo performance still lives in infamy. Although I chuckle now when I remember my singing debut, every time I watch American Idol or sit through a special musical number in church, I thank my lucky stars I’m sitting in the audience.
And now it’s your turn. What is one of your most memorable embarrassing moments? Vocal performance experiences? Do you fancy yourself a singer? And, if you’re an American Idol fan, who is your current favorite contestant?
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