Chantal here, still shattered from a successful holiday season where I had at least one gig every day until January 6. Next year I need to start prepping my voice and my body in September to be ready for the holiday onslaught. Either that or sing Wagnerian opera all year long. Ho jo to ho!
I can’t see myself in Die Walküre.
The month’s blog post falls to me, because I’m lounging around the house by myself nursing my throat with steam, hydration, and humidifiers while gulping and guzzling the 100 Best Natural Supplements for Voice Care.
Dianne’s running around downtown Austin shouting in Spanish and scowling at dudes in uniforms and masks. JD’s nearby in case she’s hauled off as an immigrant and needs a lawyer.
She’ll be fine. I’m more worried about Johnny’s grandmother and her little old lady friends. They’re easier targets. Fact is, nobody bothers Dianne for any reason, not only because she stands a hair under six feet tall. She’s also patented looks that can scorch your shorts. I know. I’ve been clubbing with her since we turned legal.
Johnny’s on his way to Mississippi to help rebuild the synagogue some low life torched a few weeks ago. The last thing my housemates said before they left was, “Do not let Darryl publish anything on our socials without clearance from all of us.” So I have to step up, even if Darryl wasn’t sulking and doing the bare minimum for his job.
I’m glad he’s doing that at least. Tending to both ends of the cats in our house and shelter is not in my lease agreement, though of course I take care of my own Godzilla, the best little kitty kitty in the whole world.
With all the bad news from last year through 10 seconds ago, I wanted to bring you something cheery. For instance, the girl singers’ billionaire club grew to three last year. That’s huge, it is. Two are women of color, I’m proud to say—Rihanna and Beyoncé. Then there’s Sister Tay, finishing up her monster Eras tour and releasing a new album that it’s fashionable to hate because who can relate to a billionaire, right?
If you can’t relate to billionaires who’ve worked their hind ends off and, in some cases, their front sides —remember Ms. Swift going onstage bloody after she left skin on the floor in an understage trolley accident?—what does that say about you? You can’t work hard for your own dreams?
Even if they’re billionaires now, memories of the bad old days are still nibbling the heels of their red-soled Louboutins. (May I one day be blessed with a pair.) How do I know? Ask me or any other Katrina survivor if they’re over that life-ripping hurricane. Good memories are butterflies dancing around your heads. Bad ones hack themselves into your bones.
About survivors—I swear, that album (Life of a Showgirl, if you’ve been living in the swamp). I bawled all the way through it and then made Gregg House sit down and listen to it with me. The first note set me off again. Dianne started sniffling during “Elizabeth Taylor” and full-on blubbered by the last track.
Johnny and JD exchanged Manly Glances, those frozen, bug-eyed stares where when they’re wondering how soon to bolt. JD threw on his Captain Obvious cloak. “You two seem really moved.”
Dianne tore into him before I could. She earned her showgirl cred dancing in a semi-professional folklórico group from her early teens, never mind her last ten years as our Frida in MultiABBA.
Johnny ventured, “The songs really aren’t about performing, are they?”
“You don’t know the life of a showgirl!” Dianne and I burst into full-throated harmony.
The men stood up, a synchronized chorus line shuffling toward the exit. “We’ll take your word for it,” JD promised.
Johnny mumbled incoherent backup vocals.
They try. I appreciate it. Guy performers have it better than females, but JD (piano, trombone) and Johnny (violin, viola, U-bass) do have a clue about music’s demands on the body. Playing an instrument? Hah! Go ask brass players with bleeding lips and string players with immobilized arms about playing.
Back to the album, I’m just glad Taylor stuck in all those love songs. (Wishing her and Travis all the best forever.) I couldn’t bear one song after another about struggling through the quicksand around your showgirl dreams. As Johnny noticed, she’s not warbling about how hard it to sing. That’s the fun part, the reason you’re trying.
“How does it feel to be adored?”—Beyoncé, “Alligator Tears,” Cowboy Carter
Except for the folks telling you you can’t sing country (Beyoncé), you have to sing country (Taylor), and you can’t make any changes at all (Rihanna; all of them, really). And you sure better not sing hard-luck songs.
Queens Bey, Tay, and RiRi have been singing out their souls for over twenty years, since they were teens, and they’ve spent most of those years on the not-rich end of the spectrum. They didn’t build their fame on inherited money. They—stop me if I’ve said this—never mind, I don’t care—WORKED.
Singing and dancing sound like happy child’s play.
They’re not. A certain singer compared it to the footballerer’s job of entertaining you in stadiums for three-and-a-half hours. Note that it’s you being entertained, not the players. There’s that word again.
So all I got to say about female singer billionaires is—RESPECT! They earned it—yes they did, internet troll.
I’m thrilled to bits to see other women make it to the top. That means there’s room for me too.
