They Said I Was High Classed

When I was growing up my house was relatively devoid of song. My two oldest brothers learned piano from my mother—who could, as they say about top athletes, play—and my other brother took violin lessons. But I, the baby of the family, only made music with a baseball bat in my hands. I played a pretty mean basketball as well.

My parents just didn’t do songs. My father listened mostly to talk radio, although he loved Perry Mason and The Jackie Gleason Show on TV; mom enjoyed the run of afternoon soap operas but very little else. That was pretty much the extent of what passed for pop culture in my house. Not particularly memorable unless you liked Raymond Burr and Joe the Bartender.

We had some record albums in the basement, largely the Mitch Miller sing-along kind. I played them occasionally and learned the songs. Singin’ in the Rain, Heart of My Heart, Yellow Rose of Texas, Ain’t We Got Fun--these are the nerdy tunes that formed my musical fundament, and many of them I couldn’t get out of my head after I became deaf and could no longer make out lyrics. You might call them a follow-the-bouncing-ball form of tinnitus.

I did learn songs on my own and through my friends, of course. I liked folk singers like Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul, and Mary, and The Kingston Trio. And when rock took off I took off with it, so the early Beatles also comprise my musical memory. The last song I remember learning all the way through with my ears was Light My Fire by The Doors. You know that it would be untrue, you know that I would be a liar, if I were to say to you that I memorized any subsequent song without seeing the words on paper. All these other songs, I like to say, are after my time.

At ALDA conventions, Saturday night is karaoke night. It’s an ALDA tradition, and many would say the hallmark of ALDAcons. Most ALDAns grew up surrounded by song, and karaoke brings it all back, often with stunning emotional force. With the support of other deafened people singing badly, even a song-deprived person like me gravitates towards the karaoke dance floor and stage. Nobody requests Mitch Miller, but Puff the Magic Dragon and Love Me Do—two very golden oldies--are universal favorites that get me going.

This year, like most years, I put in a bid to the DJ for Hound Dog, an Elvis staple. The song carries special significance for me since every time we go to Six Flags, my young son Tony does a Hound Dog solo on the karaoke stage. If the cheers and high fives he gets from the crowd are any indication, he’s quite good.

I had passed around my Blackberry showing photos of Tony doing his Six Flags gig when the ALDAcon DJ spun Hound Dog. I impulsively dashed onto the stage and grabbed the mike. Like son, like father. And I proceeded to give it my best, which basically means I sweat through my shirt and underwear.

Afterwards a number of people said “great job” and I got a few high fives. I think there might have been applause, too, but I was too busy searching for a dry napkin to notice.

It wasn’t until I got back home and saw Dave Litman’s video of Hound Dog that I realized I had been singing solo on the stage. Ken Arcia and Marylyn Howe were on each side of me playing what amounted to air guitars and Tess Crowder, a CART writer, had provided hip-swiveling dance accompaniment. But I was the only one singing into a mike. Jeez.

The whole thing blew me away. Even some hearing people had complimented me, which meant that it wasn’t just sweat that had won the kudos but also, astonishingly, my voice. They said I was high classed! In just three minutes, I had disproved the long-held notion that deaf people can do anything hearing people can do but sing.

I’ve been back from ALDAcon almost a week now but karaoke songs keep spinning through my head, a tinnitus of the soul. I have plenty of other good memories from the convention, but I have to say the Hound Dog thing is my favorite. And next year I’m going to top it and once again refute dogma. Against all odds, I’m gonna catch me a rabbit.

(Well…that was just a lie. But don’t write me off.)