"Singing, Ambition and Ventriloquism
Feb 6, 2023 22:25:50 GMT -5
Post by Radrook Admin on Feb 6, 2023 22:25:50 GMT -5
"Singing, Ambition and Ventriloquism
Some years ago, when my son looked amazed seeing me play the guitar, it reminded me of when I discovered something about my own father that was equally surprising-that he not only sang, but that he considered himself a great singer.
This happened in the middle of the 1950's during a family reunion in our New York City second-floor Housing Projects apartment. They were talking about many things, when suddenly the conversation turned to the current popular Puerto Rican singers, such as Felipe Rodriguez, and Johnny Alvino, whose songs were constantly played on the radio.
Suddenly they began wondering which one was the best singer. That’s when my father suddenly developed this faraway look. Noticing it, my aunt Julia who like my mother resembled a Native American, and who was familiar with how my father thought, based on her observation of his previous demonstrations, asked:
"Hipolito, you sing very well too, right?"
He didn't reply, but a certain glow of his squinty eyes indicated that he thoroughly agreed. Noticing that he needed a little more encouragement, my aunt brought my mother, her sister, into her plan in order to reel my father in.
"Right Alba? Hipolito sings too, doesn't he?" she said, and then leaned back to enjoy the show.
"Bueno? Si! He does sing," my mother responded.
"Right Hipolito? You were once praised by an island radio-program-host as having great prospects. Right?”
He responded by staring off as if contemplating a wondrous vision only he could fully fathom.
“Look I am talking to you? You sang on the radio once, right?"
Silence once more.
"Have you suddenly become deaf and mute? I'm talking to you!"
"Oh si! That's true!" he responded, as if he'd been suddenly yanked back from some transcendental meditative state. "
"This radio-program host back on the island told me I had great prospects!" he finally deigned to reply.
“Come on! Sing something Hipolito!” my aunt added with mischievous eyes in anticipation of what she knew was coming.
"What are you going to sing Hipolito?" she added as an incentive.
Not that she didn’t know. After all, my father's repertoire was limited to a few verses from just two songs:
1. The introduction to the song Granada,
2. The last few verses to the song Amapola, or Little Poppie.
He would always finish both songs very dramatically with a short pause just before the last extended, concluding note of:
“....que yo te vehhhngoooo a daaaaar!” [....that I have come to offer you.] for Granada
and
“....taaan solaaaaaaa!” [....so alone] for Amapola, or Little Poppie.
And there is where a serious problem became glaringly obvious. You see, for some incompressible, mysterious reason, those last notes seemed to magically transfer themselves away from his mouth and throat, and suddenly bury themselves deep within his chest where their volume was drastically reduced by approx. 50%. When I say suddenly, I meant that the transfer in texture and location of the voice was not gradual one but very abrupt one similar to a radio suddenly switching stations or how a TV shifting to another channel.
It strongly resembled how a ventriloquist projects sound into a dummy without moving his lips making it seem as if his voice is proceeding from somewhere other than his own lips.
Of course, at the tender age of four, I considered it a stupendous trick, and admired him for having pulled it off. However, I soon noticed that my mother was shaking her head at the conclusion of both songs, while my father sat proudly with gaze fixed on some faraway horizon in which he probably envisioned himself crooning to millions of fans and receiving thunderous accolades.
He was also adjusting his thinning hair with the palm of his hand. It was something he always did at the conclusion his performances, and which elicited guffaws from my aunt who greatly enjoyed a good laugh at my father's expense.
Well, once the visitors had left, I soon found out why my mother had been shaking her head that way.
Immediately, after having said goodbye to the visitors, and shutting the apartment door, she stood gazing intently at him as if feeling a moral obligation to go on an urgent mission. In this case, it was to disabuse my father of his idea that he was a faultlessly great singer, and perhaps help him to fix the flaw she had observed in his performance.
"Hipolito," she finally said after the extended silence "don’t be offended about what I am about to say, OK?” she cautiously added, as he sat meditatively on the living room sofa as if anticipating her intentions and preparing a response.
“You sing very well. I grant you that! I am not saying that you don't. You certainly do."
To which my father replied very calmly with:
"The radio announcer at the radio station in Bayamon said I had great prospectives!" Then he leaned back on the plastic-covered sofa while tenderly readjusting the thinning hair on his head with the palm of his hand.
"Yes, of course you do have great prospectives, Hipolito,” she stated as she carefully sat next to him as if expecting him to bolt if she carelessly plopped down beside him.
“But you need to educate your voice," she added.
"What do you mean by that?" my father responded, still staring off into that gloriously magical distance as if mesmerized.
"Well, it’s not to offend you, or anything, but you have a tendency to, how should I say, to swallow your own voice when hitting high notes. You know, like a ventriloquist."
"I swallow my own voice like a ventriloquist?" he asked, seeing absolutely no reason why anyone should have reached that conclusion.
"Yes, si, chico! You completely submerge your voice into your chest-cavity during the last notes of each song," She made an upward and downward motion with fingertips and palms toward her own chest as if she were drawing something into her chest to illustrate.
"You totally encapsulate the sound of your voice in your chest. How the hell do you do that? I mean, I can't even imitate you no matter how much I try!"
She tried several times to imitate him by trying to force her voice to resonate only in her chest but failed each time. Her demonstration was met by a seemingly endless profound silence.
"Bueno? Say something! I'm giving you advice for your own good-you know? Why do you think Julia was laughing? Eh? It's not just me who notices it. You know?”
“Nobody else said anything!” he pointed out in a soft voice he always used when arguing.
“Chico, of course they didn't say anything. You know why? Because they don't have the confianza [the familiarity] that I have to tell you. They don't want to offend you! Why do you think Julia laughs after you sing, anyway?"
"Envidia! Envy!" he solemnly responded in his semi-hushed voice with a shouldn't-it-be-obvious expression on his face.
"She laughs because she envies me!"
My mother stared at him like a kid stares at a rubrics cube after struggling with it to no avail and wanting to hurl it against the nearest wall.
"And I envy you too-right Hipolito? Is that why you think I point this out? Because I envy you?"
His silence indicated a yes. Having understood his silence as an affirmative, my mom continued with:
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Mira muchacho! [look man] You are like a dog dreaming of longanizas. [sausages] Why would I envy you because I can't force my voice into my chest as soon as I hit a high note? You really think I envy that?"
"You envy me too."
"OK! If it makes you happy, then you are a great singer. OK? I leave you for incorrigible. Sing any way you want Hipolito. You want to encapsulate your voice like a ventriloquist? Go ahead, encapsulate your voice like a ventriloquist. It isn't me they are laughing at! You know?"
"When are you going to make dinner?" he responded. It was the the usual way he put an end to disagreeable conversations between them.
I never heard my father sing again after that for the duration of their twenty-year marriage. After the divorce, I did hear him sing, but the ventriloquist effect wasn't present in his songs. Maybe because the didn't sing the songs Granada and Amapola? But then again, there was no one around like my aunt Julia requesting a demonstration. Who knows?