IS our singing style determined by our race? That was the controversial notion expounded at Conrad’s diner in Pasadena by Ian Whitcomb last night.
Every Monday an eclectic group assemble at a never-ending table in the depths of the lounge bar at Conrad’s, a Mexican-run diner at the corner of Lake and Walnut, a mixed business and residential district a block south of the 210 freeway. That makes it easy for people to come from as far as Santa Monica in the west and Fontana in the east, along with a hard core of locals from Pasadena, South Pasadena and Altadena.
No subject is off-limits, although voices are lowered when the subject of race arises, and the gas is turned to ‘inaudible’ if ever anyone mentions the N word.
Last night it all began with an innocent dissection of American Idol, which finished last week with a surprise victory for Missouri’s rock-singing David Cook over balladeer David Archuleta from Utah.
‘Were they any good?’ queried Ian, the only professional singer among us. ‘I never watch that sort of show, the singing is usually so bad – full of melisma.’
Such a technical term immediately divides the men from the boys, the cognoscenti from the dilletante. According to Wikipedia, “a melisma occurs when a singer switches pitch while singing the same syllable. It is used heavily in baroque vocal music, as well as to a lesser extent in popular music. Singers especially noted for their use of this are Christina Aguilera, David Ruffin, Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Amy Lee, Whitney Houston, Aretha Franklin, Beyoncé Knowles and Patti Labelle.”
Ian claimed that lazy or lousy singers use the technique to cover up their own shortcomings, becoming a corruption of true song.
It sounds remarkably close to miasma, a Greek word meaning ‘pollution’. So far, so academic.
But then came the controversial bit. ‘You see this all the time with black singers in particular,’ Ian added. ‘In fact it stems from their personality, when they are in trouble they wave their arms around and make all sorts of excuses, shouting and going off in all directions rather than answering the accusation. All races sing basically in a way that reflects their racial type.’
Everyone else was so stunned by this that the conversation moved on, and Ian realized that he had stepped into swampy territory. But could it be true?
After all, Latinos sing flamboyantly, Asians precisely and delicately, Europeans melodically and so on. Some of the greatest or most successful singers have cross-fertilized different styles, such as the Rolling Stones adding edge and aggression to their singing by adopting black-origin blues styles.
Last night we were 12: Ian, Regina, Bobb, Barbara, Jim, Will, Bob, Glenn, Andy, Mary, Lynne, Bill.
These are the most regular of the regulars, with the exception of Steve and Jeanette. You’ll meet them all gradually, if you keep reading this blog.
The other couples are Ian and Regina, Bobb and Barbara, and Bill and Lynne. Some of the others leave partners behind, some of those partners show up occasionally, others hardly ever.
The conversation swings around, with a bias around showbiz and old movies, led by Bob, Bobb, Ian and Jim.
Lines are remembered, like ‘Life is like cup of coffee, it smells better than it tastes’, to which Bob immediately replied with
Mickey Rooney’s ‘I'd have written earlier but I couldn't spell (the noise corresponding to a raspberry).’ Sometimes that can lead to a ‘best-ever’ contest, but this time it was just a couple of quick-fire quotes and then onto something else.
For some reason the 1938 film The Citadel sprang up out of the chat, and the forthcoming Hitchcock weekend at the Egyptian. But it could be anything. When it comes to film, old is generally preferred over new. The new Indiana Jones film was panned, despite (or because) taking over $100 million on the Memorial Day weekend.
Old films weren’t as driven by money as they are now – or maybe it was easier to make money then, even without DVD sales. I don’t know if that’s true, but with a gathering in which no one is under 50, the old days are bound to have a rosy hue.
And so we drifted out to the parking lot, to discover that poor Rollo, Ian and Regina’s wonderful dog, was feeling sorry for himself because he had sprained his ankle down a pothole when he was chasing a squirrel. But it just made him all the more poignant and lovable.
