In the wee, small hours of the morning
Your golden sun will shine for me
[I’m sending this out on a Tuesday morning — today — as opposed to yesterday because I’m crashing on projects. That’s how the end of the year happens, with holidays and what not. Reminder: if you like reading this newsletter, won’t you please share it? Thank you!]
I love to sing.
I’m also extremely self-conscious about it, especially if I’m singing a lead part. It’s the only time I experience stage fright of any kind. That didn’t stop me from joining glee clubs and choirs in school; there, I could find safety in the anonymity of a group. Once I left college for the last time, eight years ago, though, I shelved any thought of singing. Alone in my house, I’m bound to let loose; in public, not at all.
That self-consciousness is the real reason why I avoided karaoke bars, too. I used to bartend at a karaoke bar, and while I’m not wild about the concept, the truth is that my stage fright kicks into overdrive when I have the microphone in my hand.
Oh my God…am I going to sing in tune? What if that song is in a different key? What if I blank out on the melody? What in the hell is going on with these mikes? On and on and on. What song should I pick? What if the people I’m singing with don’t like the song I pick? Before I know it, I’m a ball of tension shot through with nerves. Karaoke only really works if you’re relaxed, having fun, and not taking yourself seriously, because hardly anyone can pull off great singing off the cuff.
None of the above resembles relaxation or enjoyment.
Which brings me to Saturday night. That morning, I’d visited my new therapist* for the first time. Surprisingly, the session went smoothly! From there, I ran errands, then headed back to my place. My friend Elana was celebrating her 40th birthday, and given my currently hobbled state, I wisely chose to rest before heading back out into the city.
Which brings me to why I’m talking about singing: we celebrated at a Koreatown karaoke bar. I was going to go, no matter what. Not only because I love hanging with Elana - and celebrating a landmark occasion - but because it meant breaking up my routine, meeting new people, and stretching my comfort zone.
So: I’m in the bar, we’re in one of the karaoke rooms, and it’s my turn to pick a song to sing. Normally, this would be when I would demur. I did something different: I picked a song.
What’s the Great American Songbook? According to the eponymous foundation, it’s “the canon of the most important and influential American popular songs and jazz standards from the early 20th century. These popular and enduring songs, created for Broadway theatre, musical theatre and Hollywood musical film between the 1920s and 1950s, are often referred to as “American standards”.
My step-father and I weren’t ever close; we’re estranged now. But one of the few things we share is an appreciation for the Songbook. Somewhere in his record collection is a copy of Frank Sinatra’s In The Wee Small Hours. It’s not the only Sinatra record he has; but it’s the first one I remember listening to. The album is a collection of mournful songs — legend has it that he recorded the album, often considered one of the first “concept” albums ever, after his final breakup with the love of his life, the actress Ava Gardner.
Sinatra’s performance on that record is, to me, otherworldly. That sad collection of songs becomes, by turns, desolate, forlorn, wretched in its heartbreak. It’s probably one of my favorite albums, and I often sing the title track to myself. It suits my mood, which is melancholy to begin with, prone to seeing the sadness in things rather than happiness. For a man defined by his otherworldly confidence and swagger, Sinatra sounds shockingly vulnerable in this record. It’s probably one of the records I’d choose for my Desert Island Discs collection.
My teenage years coincided with the Songbook’s return to prominence, most famously with Tony Bennett’s MTV Unplugged performance. Between that, my step-father’s collection, and my own nerdery, I learned a fair few of those songs by heart. I wasn’t your standard-issue theatre kid, memorizing Broadway standards; instead, I’d sing songs by Bennett, Dean Martin, and yes, Frank Sinatra.
My song picked, I waited my turn. I clapped, hollered, cheered on everyone else as they sang, willing myself into relaxation. I chatted with my friends, caught up on gossip and news, shared what I knew of things in turn.
And then it came: my time to sing. Except…what in the hell? I don’t recognize this key. This isn’t the right key to this song! I nervously laughed, blurted out that I didn’t know the key, and then: Fuck it, who cares, I thought. I took a deep breath.
I leaned in, and started belting out a song I’ve sung a thousand times before.
I left my heart in San Francisco
High on a hill, it calls to me
To be where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars
The morning fog may chill the air, I don't care
My love waits there in San Francisco
Above the blue and windy sea
When I come home to you, San Francisco
Your golden sun will shine for me
You see, Frank Sinatra also recorded a version of this classic. And unlike Tony Bennett’s** version — for whom this is an anthem the way “New York, New York” was for Sinatra — Sinatra’s version is in a different key, more wistful, mournful, even.
I surprised myself with it, and with how much I enjoyed singing, and letting go of being afraid of what others might think, and instead just doing.
So this week: let your golden sun shine for yourself, and others, and everyone whom you give a damn about, whether they know it or not.
I love all of you. Let me know if you need anything, even if it’s in the wee, small hours of the morning. I’m here for you. Reply back to this email, or hit me up on Twitter.