Royal wedding tinged with sadness for this silent singer
YOU saw them at the Royal Wedding. The Beautiful People, flashing fangs whitened by Gleamo Ltd, tooth enhancers By Appointment since 1862, well before Queen Victoria needed false teeth.
Who could forget the sight of leaping lips gymnastically getting themselves around mouthfuls like, ‘‘Open now the crystal fountain, Whence the healing stream doth flow’’ as they are gripped by the sheer emotional joy of belting out Guide Me O Thou Great
Redeemer accompanied by the choir of St George’s Chapel?
Not as inspiring as
Wednesday night karaoke at
The Bog but moving, all the same.
But while you were wallowing in the flood of sentiment washing over you as you drowned in this musical extravaganza, others were saddened and, dear reader, I was one of those who gained no joy from the songs. You see, I have amusia. Of course, during my happy childhood days I ran and frolicked with my playmates blissfully unaware of the disability. I even sang ‘‘Happy Birthday to You’’ at parties and noone had the unkindness to comment. It is one of those curses invisible to the sufferer which come to light only in certain circumstances. Rather like Donald Trump being unable to say anything sensible or Winston Peters being unable to pass a mirror without looking at it.
Congenital amusia affects about 4% of the population which means about 30 of the 800 guests crammed into St George’s Chapel were desperately trying to hide their disability from those around them.
For me the tragedy struck when I was 10 and the music teacher, Mr Shepherd, decided we would have a school concert. We were taken through a dreadful song called Joe the Carrier Lad. I cringe now even at the memory of ‘‘Crack crack goes me whip I whistle and I sing/I sit upon me wagon. I’m as happy as a king.’’ But the sheer embarrassment of the lyrics was soon overshadowed by a greater catastrophe. As we chirruped away Mr Shepherd moved along the line and bent down to listen closely to each boy. He made a few notes and dismissed us. That afternoon Barney O’Reilly and I were sent to the cricket coach. ‘‘You two are keen on cricket. How would you like to roll the pitch on Thursdays after lunch?’’ Of course, we were delighted. An afternoon in the sun missing arithmetic and other nonsense. But on Thursday we found we were actually missing singing practice and so had, in effect, been kicked out of the choir. I realised years later that the ploy had been an act of kindness by Mr Shepherd. We could say we were specially chosen to tend the wicket, whereas the truth was that we were not wanted in the choir because we had amusia!
There is no cure. A Dunedin specialist told me 20 years ago she had never failed to cure it, but when I gave her a burst of Joe the Carrier Lad she reeled back and her pleasant smile became a grimace like that of someone who has found half a worm in an apple they’ve just bitten into.
You’ve probably realised by now that amusia is tone deafness. ‘‘A deficit in finegrained pitch discrimination’’ the books say, and the only way to handle it is never to sing. My hopes of being picked for the All Blacks were dashed. (They are expected to actually sing God Defend New Zealand and not just mumble it). At weddings and funerals, I simply mime the words and only those on either side are left wondering about this bloke who seems to have an inaudible voice.
My downfall came, though, only recently. I was privileged to be the speaker at an Anzac service and took my place on the stage with the local vicar who was the MC. When the pianist launched into O God, Our Help in Ages Past the MC joined in with a pleasant light baritone while I, as usual, mimed the words. From time to time the vicar glanced at me and at least twice poked around in his ears as though trying to improve his hearing.
It’s a great hymn and I got carried away only to be still miming long after everyone else had finished singing. Embarrassment for a moment or two, but nothing more was said and we moved on.
From now on I will close my eyes and droop my head during songs at such events. ‘‘Poor chap,’’ they will say, ‘‘Sleeping sickness.’’ At least they will never know that in their midst is a man suffering from the dreaded amusia. They might think it’s catching. A stampede for the doors is the last thing you want at a wedding or funeral, apart from, of course, someone who can’t sing.