Silence to a Caterwaul

I woke up and my belly hurts. It hurts from all the ice water I consumed last night in an attempt to stop the re-enactment of Sunday's hangover. It hurts from the gymnastic troupe of butterflies that vaulted through my stomach as I took to the stage last night to sing in front of an NYC crowd in Little Italy. And it also aches a little for my own disappointment, though that could be my pride too.

I swore that nothing on God's green earth would move me out. I'd had 4 hours sleep when I boarded my flight at Chicago, met my host and found my way to his place in Brooklyn and then parked myself down comfortably. Last night was meant for blogs; news reading and replying to emails; eating; and finally sinking into that deep, deep hole of sleep. And it was, until I logged onto the NYC message board on CouchSurfing.com and read this:

"we get to sing our hearts out with a rock band behind us."

Any other words used to describe the night and I would have signed off for some cocoa. Sure the girl who posted the message was cute, but even my tyrannosaurian libido was tuning out of Hells Bells and into Stairway to Heaven. But not now. Synapses burning; heart rate increasing. Finally, the ultimate form of karaoke was within my grasp. My blood turned to coffee as I showered, changed and leapt out into the New York night. I needed to sing, to perform. I haven't done it in so long, not since my Finnish friend Laura's wedding back in 2003. My rendition of 'One' was good, even by my exacting standards. Here was my chance to relive the dream.

At first I didn't think we'd get the chance to sing. There was no cover so the whole experience was pretty much gratis, and as you can imagine hip gypos like myself were out in full force to take advantage of this unique event. We were lucky though - there were a few spots left. I agonised over my choice. Everyone was singing old school, belly-of-the-beast man rock. I first selected Sunday Bloody Sunday because my voice can handle that, but it wasn't in keeping with what everyone else was singing. Besides, with this opportunity I had to choose the founders themselves. It had to be Zeppelin. I took the rubber and erased U2 from my repertoire. I wrote down 'Rock and Roll', crossed my fingers and prayed that I would be on within an hour so that my voice had even the slightest chance of doing it justice.

The waiting. The interminable waiting. And not in silence either. There was one dude who sang AC/DC with such throat and gusto that I knew I was doomed. Then came a mohawk-bedecked, shirtless screamer who called The Number of the Beast with such stage presence that I swore the room turned to hellfire red for at least a couple of seconds. Then the icing on the cake - a flawless Axl Rose from the time when Axl could still sing. "Don't let me follow him". Unluckily, I didn't. I waited...and waited, then went to the bathroom...then waited, then went to the bathroom again, waited etc etc. I was starting to think I wasn't going to get my chance. Part of me was relieved. I'd been singing along and cheering so many people that my voice was screwed. Rock and Roll is a song I can barely sing when my voice is relaxed and ready to roar. It demands a high-pitched scream that I can't really execute. What's more, I had to do all of this with ice water sobriety. Why had I been drinking iced water all night? I need beer, vodka, rum and a reason. And why ice? Nothing is worse for the throat than ice. I began repeating the mantra that I wasn't going on. They'd run out of time. Goodnight and see you next week. No, see you now Tone. See you on stage. In 5,4,3...

I climbed up to join the band. The lights were bright and I could only see the other Couch Surfers at the front and a few rows back. I was doing this sober and without any friends for support. I was going to perform in the sonic-boom wake of some thunderous singers. I was hearing the band crank up The Crunge. I wasn't singing The Crunge. Where's that confounded bridge - I need to get out of here! But no chance to escape. My voice is screwed, I'm nervous and I have a sinking feeling that it's not going to be like Laura's wedding. I'm going to suck. Well they didn't have any Jeff Buckley to sing. To be honest, even if they did I'd still have gone for the Led. I needed to take the risk. I needed to explore myself.

The drums fire up. The guitar riff is in motion. I grab the mike in my right hand, and the cord in my left. Hell, if I'm going to bomb on the vocals I'm definitely going to give my Robert Plant stage presence a good airing. I wait for my cue. I wait...and wait, then scream.

What came out was surprising. It was a parody. An extremely high-pitched cat wail that lacked the finesse of the Plant, but at least I was holding the note. Some note. Not sure which one. Not sure if anyone else knew. The guitarist helped me along when the going got tough. Well, I say 'helped'. I mean carry. His voice was almost like Plant's. He should be singing this song, not me. But this is me. I kept on going. I went down on the ground, on my knees; there was posturing (although no thrusting) and shaking of the tail feather. I could see that the crowd wasn't as engaged as they had been with some of the prior acts. It was late and I was focusing on reading the lyrics far too much. Not enough eye contact. I'll learn, I'll learn.

As fast as the drums cranked up, they wound down. I gave one last gut busting scream and I was spent. The host came up to me and said I had 'balls for singing that'. As harsh as I am on myself about everything - especially concerning something so fragile and dear to my heart as my ability to sing - I had to agree. Dutch courage didn't propel me on stage; and neither did the rally cry of my mates. I did. If I'd sang Suffragette City, Sunday Bloody Sunday, or a whole host of other songs the Diamond Dog would have barked a trail of velvety bejewelled notes, arms flailing and hips angling lightning bolts across the stage. Give me Curtis Mayfield and I'll transform my one note cat scream into clouds of soul-funk and dance. I know I'm better than last night, but it's taken me to write this blog entry to realise it. Now if only I had another chance to perform and raise my game. If only there was a barmitzvah, wake or a wedding coming up where I can sing again. If only...

Tony is rather disturbed by last night's dream where Bono hugged him and they made up. The thing is Bono wasn't sorry for their work over the past 10 years - it was more like he was forgiving me for being so harsh towards him. And I let him do that. I'm emailing Archbishop Desmond Tutu because I expect he's had similar experiences with St Hewson.