Let me rephrase that, how do you tell someone in a nice way that they suck Arabian Donkey Tuna when it comes to singing?
For full effect, download “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. You may ask why I’ve selected that epic masterpiece. Simply put, no matter where you are or what you are doing, when you hear Freddie Mercury’s glorious tenor voice proclaiming that he just killed a man, you damn well better join in on the chorus.
But seriously though, how do I tell someone that they are piss-poor awful at trying to harmonize? It’s one thing to sing along with the latest song and be able to keep up pace, rhythm and tune, it’s another thing to brutally butcher the chorus to a Miley Cyrus song, that already sounds bad to begin with, by using your monotone garble that sounds like it’s coming from your nostrils.
I know we are not talented in every single facet of life, that’s a common fact. For example, I am not a skilled dancer whatsoever. I knew this from the ripe old age of 11 when I used the sweet moves of Elaine Benes as my only example. From there it only got worse. I hit puberty, I grew a foot and a half taller, I realized I was white; all of these played contributing factors in me never developing any sort of natural beat that allowed me to move my body in a way that made sense to the music that was playing.
But see, I know I’m not a good dancer. If a beat comes on over the radio and I see some “hunnies” start “shakin’ their thang”, I will immediately grab my cup of punch and take my place holding up the south wall of the cultural hall. I am not a dancer. I have accepted this cruel, harsh fact of life and I’m fine with it. God loves me regardless of whether or not I can get my groove on.
Now I’ve recognized my flaws as a public dancer, I know my inconsistencies. Please explain to me how someone that Simon Cowell would stab with a flaming javelin at an audition, not know that they just plain suck?
Case and point. A few days ago I went on a mini road trip with some friends. And on this enjoyable excursion one of the main people in the van decided to sing along with the iPod we had on shuffle.
And so there he sat.
And so there he sat.
For an hour.
Singing all by himself.
Sounding like Helen Keller with a lisp.
And I didn’t know how to tell him in the nicest way possible that he needed to stop his caroling, because every time he finished a song I think a demented Chucky doll punched out a fairy’s voice box.
Joe Schmo: “That was a great song guys! I love me some Taylor Swift! Don’t you think I sound just like her?”
Me: “Well if by her, you’re meaning the mating call of a brain-injured hippopotamus, then yes, you’re a perfect fit.”
For the sake of common courtesy none of us said a thing to him. We just sat there in our ignorant bliss, listening to the closest replica of every adult figure in Charlie Brown’s life pump out song after song, meanwhile part of our musical glamour died inside. And for 67 minutes of pure vocal Hell, none of us had the decency, or Spanish word for testicles to tell him to stop. FOR THE LOVE OF EVERY BROKEN NAIL SCRAPING DOWN A CHALKBOARD, STOP TRYING TO SING!!!
And so what did I do instead? Pulled out my phone and wrote one heck of a venting blogpost about it, simply for your own entertainment.
Somewhere out there, my musically-gifted Grandmother is shaking her head in disgust at how tone-deaf people can be.