Something’s been bugging me lately.
Take an accomplished singer, be they a rock god, a diva or an opera tenor. It’s obvious that they’ve trained themselves to be at the top of their game, to deliver night after night to screaming throngs of rapturous fans or express sadness or rage inside the studio, all at the behest of a slave-driving producer.
So, given their talents and their hard work to hone that talent, what do they do when it comes time to celebrate a friend’s birthday? I mean, Happy Birthday is such a simple song. Any Joe Blow can “sing” it, but are professionally trained singers obligated to give that little ditty their all?
Or do they get the cold shoulder when they DO belt it out? Because while guys like Tim “Ripper” Owens, Russell Allen or Jorn Lande can kill. that. song., if I were standing there, I’d probably get ticked at them. “Yeah, okay, you’re a great singer, but do you have to make me look like such a tin-eared clod?”
And it just doesn’t have to begin and end with singers. What if, hypothetically speaking, Yngwie Malmsteen’s little girl signs up for the talent show and she wants him to accompany her on the piano? The guy just doesn’t play rhythm guitar. Would he be able to keep himself from shredding like a maniac and blowing his little girl off of the stage? Why, his lightning quick fretting and his precision strumming would probably melt everyone’s faces off.
Puddles and puddles of molten flesh. With teeth and eyes. Now there’s a disturbing sight.
Yes, these are the thoughts that occupy my spare time.