Performa
Comments(4) We didn’t, and still don’t, live in the best-maintained of houses (or in my case shophouses), from the inside and out. Today my dear old Ipoh home stands at nearly 26 years old. Besides the ubiquitous roof leaks, squeaky mice scuttling about on the rooftops, telephone line static, a faulty front grille and several dark corners we dare not venture… there has always been a constant.
Power out.
Usually the whole block would get it at the same time. The first 10 seconds are always the most fun. Whatever you were doing, you think you went blind all of a sudden. After you find your bearings, you hear the familiar cries of "aiyoh" from all your neighbours. Like a choir gone mad.
Way back when, our household always had a pattern, since power out almost always occurred in the evenings. Sis and I would light up a few candles and place them around the most important parts of the house. All doors and windows would be opened for ventilation. I might tinkle at the piano for awhile. And if I had an exam coming up, panicking would ensue. But amidst all this, within 15 minutes, our parents would close shop early and come upstairs for some quality family time. In the dark.
Power out nights were special. To pass the time, Dad would bring out his old acoustic guitar and strum and sing away to his favourite oldies. Like a gentle ramblin’ folk singer he sounded like, captivating in his vocals and guitar playing alike. The Beatles, The Carpenters… he knew them all, the music of his generation. Amidst the glowing candles and the darkness bridging them, many years later, a Nirvana music video would remind me strikingly of this moment.
It wasn’t a one-off thing. My father had performing blood. He told me that years and years ago, while he was still in school, before Simon and Garfunkel influenced him to pick up a guitar and strum, he loved to sing. And pretty well at it too. I remember asking him to tell me again and again how he performed his favourite song at his school’s singing contest. And how he was the only one singing an English song while the others sang in Chinese. And how he finished second and was mighty proud of it. Because it was his first attempt.
And I would picture it all in my head. My dad, 20 years younger, 20 pounds lighter, in thick-framed Buddy Holly glasses (all the rage), frilly white shirt with the collars up (all the rage), moustache (all the rage), and possibly bell-bottoms which were all the rage too. How everyone would be clones of themselves but when my dad began to sing he stood apart from the rest easily… with just the opening line of the most-played English song on earth.
"Yesterday… all my troubles seemed so far away…"
The Beatles. He loved them.
Probably my biggest regret in life is never knowing how to play the guitar. Any type of guitar. So I could not strum and sing folk-singer-style like Dad. But singing alone I knew… it’s an inherited gift. In 1994, in Standard 6 with all the UPSR craziness behind, my school organised a singing contest to pass the time. And being a closet bathroom singer then, I decided to give it a shot, never having done so before although my school organised one every year.
Like Dad I wanted an English song. Not because I didn’t like Chinese songs but because English songs were easier to memorise, with the extra added effect of the audience going "ooh he’s singing English" I hoped. The morning of the contest my dad gave me a run-through and a few tips while onstage. I took it all in, acutely aware that all his tricks were 20 years old.
Watching the contestants go before you was like awaiting your turn on the guillotine. Like a helpless chicken wondering why life was so unfair as his head was slammed onto the chopping board. People came and went. Some were off-key, some forgot their words, almost all were bundles of nerves. The kid before me tried some Cantopop trick he learnt while watching Jade Solid Gold the previous night and got some laughs as his reward. It would be my turn next.
As I stepped up onstage to sing for the first time, something came over me as I sang the opening lines. The audience was very quiet indeed. My peers, 10- to 12-year olds and a panel of teacher-judges. They just stared. I wondered if my fly was open but continued singing anyway. And then the chorus came. If any performance had to be saved it would be in the chorus. And to my total surprise, the audience erupted. My first ever applause.
They would do that for every chorus I winged, and as my confidence slowly grew, they warmed up to me even quicker. In the end, I won first. The song? Michael Learns To Rock’s "Sleeping Child". From then on and for many years since, I would be known as the Sleeping Child kid. Even now it still seems, to some people.
To sing. To give a good show. Performa. To be able to both appreciate and perform the music I love is one of my greatest pleasures, pure and simple. For now and ever, until my vocal chords run dry. I am far from being the best singer around, but I thank God for this gift, and Dad for showing me the way.
"Oh I believe in yesterday…"
