Just Ask Carol Channing
The local independent TV station showed old cartoons and Three Stooges shorts in the afternoon. Some of the cartoons were just singalongs. Follow the bouncing ball, which bounced over onscreen lyrics letting the audience know when to sing the words. The songs were probably familiar standards when the cartoons were first released but I’d never heard of them. That didn’t stop me from singing Pennies from Heaven and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. What did stop me from singing was Mom. “Stop that caterwauling! I can’t hear myself think!”
I was an eighteen-year old sophomore at Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Fl. It used to be called Florida Presbyterian College but Jack Eckerd gave them a couple million dollars and the school changed its name in gratitude. I’d change my name to Turd Face McFarty for half that amount.
Eckerd College required students to attend a six-week winter term. We took only one class but for four hours, every day. A semester’s worth of learning crammed into a month and a half.
I enrolled in the Cabaret Workshop. It was great. No tests, no lectures to speak of; we did theater exercises, wrote sketches, skits and songs, then rewrote them as needed. We rehearsed and then rewrote some more until we had a two hour cabaret. The final exam was to perform the Cabaret for the public for four days.
I wrote the lyrics for three songs and sang two of them. On opening night, the theater critic for the St. Petersburg Times was in the audience. My yellowed copy of his review was destroyed when my house burned down but I can quote the relevant part by memory:
As a lyricist, Bob Byrd made me wonder what Sondheim or Hart must have been like when they were eighteen.He is not in their class but in ten years he may come close.As a singer Bob Byrd has the voice of an angel: The Angel of Death.
I dropped out of college a year later to get married. Two years later I dropped out of marriage to get divorced. I did stand-up comedy in South Florida for a couple of years but stopped for a variety of reasons. I didn’t miss stand-up but I did miss performing. I’d seen a local community theater’s production of Hello, Dolly! They put the “amateur” in Amateur Theater but it was obvious they had a lot of fun and fun was something I needed.
I was there when the troupe held auditions for The Pajama Game. I recognized most of the Dolly performers. They were in little groups chatting and laughing while we waited for the director to start the audition. I sat off by myself.
I considered leaving. Were the try-outs merely a formality? Had the play already been cast?
I waited for my name to be called. And waited. And waited. Everyone else had already performed a scene and a song, some more than once.
“Bob Byrd!” yelled a voice form the back of the tiny theater. I put on a smile and went on stage. The director called more names and I was joined by two other auditioners. We were handed scripts and told to turn to page so-and-so, and each of us given roles.
I had one line. That was my audition. Three words. Yeah, this thing was already cast. I made up my mind to leave when the scene was finished (the other two actors had plenty of dialog to get through). When the scene ended, though the director told me to hand my sheet music to Sally, whom I assumed was the fossil seated at the upright piano.
What the heck, maybe I could get a part as a factory extra or part of the chorus. Everyone would know me when it came time for the next production and maybe I’d get to read more than “No raise. Period.” I handed Sally my music. I stood center stage and started to sing. “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes. Love never made a fool of you. You used to be too wise.”
“Oh my God!” the directed hooted. “Did Jerry send you? I’m gonna kill him! This is hilarious! Keep going”
I didn’t think he was talking to me. Jerry didn’t send me and I wasn’t trying to be hilarious. I thought it rude of him to be having a loud conversation during my song, but it’s what I had become accustomed to. I forged ahead. “Hey there, you on that high flying cloud. Though she won’t throw a crumb to you, you think someday she’ll come to you.”
The laughter grew louder. I flashed back to the Cabaret review. Maybe he was talking to me. I wanted nothing more than to go home but I forced myself to keep going. “Is it all going in one ear, and out the otherrrrrrrrrr?” I finished in a dramatic crescendo that would have done John Raitt proud. The Voice in the Dark said, “Tell Jerry I owe him one.”
“I don’t know Jerry,” I said.
Pause. “Oh.” Pause. “Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch.” They weren’t, not even to tell me I just wasn’t right for this show.
On my way out of the theater I heard one actor say to another, “Do you think he knows how bad he is?”
“He must do it on purpose. No one could be that bad.”
Some years my friend Georgia invited me to her daughter’s seventh birthday party. I helped out with Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Drop the Clothespin into the Milk Jug. Are clothespins and milk jugs still around? When the cake was brought out the guests started singing. “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday—” Georgia never dropped a note when she gently placed her hand over my mouth.
I stopped singing after that. At church I’d open the hymnal but wouldn’t open my mouth.
I’ve always been drawn to creative people. At parties and cookouts someone invariably brought out a guitar. Soon everyone was singing Bob Dylan and Peter, Paul, and Mary songs. Everyone but me. The spontaneous singing was a beautiful thing. If I joined in, I’d make it ugly.
I missed singing. I sang along to CDs in the car but that was it. I tried singing by myself at home a couple of times but it chased the cats from the room. The cats agreed with the St. Petersburg Times, the community theater director, and Georgia. I think people who abuse animals should be jailed for life. Rather than make them suffer, I limited my singing to the car.
Several years later I was living in Birmingham. I led the youth group at church (which I called the yoot groop). I continued to follow along silently to the hymns.
One day I was listening to a program on NPR. It was some kind of music thing. In between numbers the host interviewed the singer. He said, “I’d give anything to sing as well as you.”
“Anyone can carry a tune.”
“I can’t even drag a tune.”
The singer replied, “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be a good singer to sell a song. Just look at Carol Channing.” I was miffed. I’d seen Carol Channing in Dolly when I was in high school. Every song she sang was perfect. Thinking of seeing that show (NOT the amateur theater version) made me feel nostalgic. I turned off the radio and logged into You Tube. I pulled up the cast album for Hello, Dolly! and hit play.
I’ll be damned. She was just a mediocre singer at best. I never noticed before because, by golly, that woman can sell a song.
I organized a combination lasagna supper/talent show at church as a yoot groop fund raiser. I wrote a couple of skits for all the kids to perform, and they also came up with their own acts. Members of the congregation also performed, singing, juggling, doing tricks with their dogs or parrots, or telling jokes.
I’d rewritten the lyrics to There’s No Business Like Show Business. I’d planned for the kids to open the show with it, accompanied by Karaoke music. You don’t have to be a good singer to sell a song. The kids never saw the song.
The night of the show the yoots acted as waiters at the parish hall turned Italian Bistro. All of them, even the girls, drew handlebar mustaches on their faces. I panicked. “Please tell me that’s not a Sharpie!” I begged. They assured me it was eyebrow pencil, easily removed.
After supper the house lights dimmed. A cymbal crashed, followed by a musical fanfare. The stage lights came up to show me, alone on stage, beaming. I belted the rewritten song in a way that would make Ethel Merman proud. I SOLD that song!
I got cringes and grimaces from the audience. But you know what else I got from them?
Applause.
Cheers.
A standing ovation.
Every talent show after that included two show stopping numbers from me.
I attend several storytelling festivals a year. The grand master of storytellers was Kathryn Tucker Windham. I was lucky enough to see her four times before she died. Her favorite song was I’ll Fly Away. For her final set she always had volunteers pass out squares of wax paper and pocket combs. She taught us how to turn them into kazoos and led us all in I’ll Fly Away. After her death, each festival I attend ends with the audience singing I’ll Fly Away in her honor.
No one sings it with more gusto than I. You don’t have to be a good singer to sell a song.
Just ask Bob Byrd