Vox

As I stood in the garage, beating the bag that had never done anything but hang there, I sang along with the voices in my head. At this moment, they happened to be REM, and they sounded like "Cuyahoga." I put it in my iPod for the chorus, and the fact that I like to sing along. It was that moment in the garage that let me know that I may have made a slight miscalculation. I had only recently added a brace to between the roof and the rafters, having the effect of dampening the thunder I was creating by punching the heavy bag. This new, relative silence gave me the opportunity to experience my voice amid the sounds around me. It was disconcerting.
I don't claim to have a great voice or perfect pitch, but I feel confident in situations where I am asked to carry a tune. I understand the principles of harmony and melody, having once been taught voice by my piano teacher. After a few weeks of singing scales and checking my pitch against the tones on the piano, I became familiar with what it took to sound like I knew what I was doing. To a degree.
As I grew older, I knew that I was better off listening to some tunes, waiting for something in my range. The songs I would pick were those that felt comfortable. Later these songs became my playlist. Not that I run around Oakland, warbling as I go. It's those voices in my head. But when you've got headphones on, sometimes those voices leak out, and I become intensely aware of the difference between my voice and those generated in a recording studio, after multiple takes and years of training.
When I was in high school, I never took a shower without my stereo blasting away in my bedroom. There was no chance for me to be heard over the roar. When I moved into a dorm, and then a series of apartments, it became clear that sharing my music tastes at such a reckless volume would not be encouraged, or in some cases, allowed. On those rare occasions when my family is gone for the day and I revert to my teen aged habits, I find myself hollering along, just like the old days. But mostly such behavior is reserved for those rare occasions when I find myself in the crowd at a rock show. Even then, I have become more self-conscious, after I looked over at my son at one particular Bruce Springsteen show and he was rolling his eyes. "What's the matter?" I asked him, above the din. "You're the only one singing every song."
And so I have learned to keep my music to myself. Every once in a while in the car, I get away with a song or two, but mostly I've got my ear buds in, with the music bouncing around the inside of my head. And every so often, a song will find its way out. Much to the dismay of my son and record producers everywhere.