The Sound of Isaac

By Isaac Stone Fish

My parents taught me to follow my passions to livelihoods. Songs always enchanted me, and I thirsted for a role in their creation. I never thought of writing them, only of singing them. And my parents encouraged me, smiling at the peace music brought me.

As a child, I acted in homegrown musical adaptations of the Lion King. My cousins and I would romp around the basement, forcing our parents to watch our impressions of Simba and Scar. I sped around Syracuse in my Ford Windstar, shouting out the lyrics of classic rock songs. Yet for some reason, my ascent to singing stardom was not meant to be.

I clearly remember the first time I realized what an awful singer I was. In my sophomore year of high school, I had a Spanish teacher who loved to sing. One day, crooning Luis Fonsi's "No Te Cambio Por Ninguna" louder than the rest of the class, my teacher approached and stood next to me.

"Isaac," she intoned incredulously, "what are you doing?""Singing," I replied. She raised one eyebrow and stared at me. "Oh," she said. "I'm going to stand over here now," she added, slowly backing away.

I was crushed. I do not know how the gene passed me by-the rest of my family seems to carry it. Two of my mom's brothers were musicians, crafting songs in their basement, spinning tales with melodies and lyrics. My mom and dad can sing, though they rarely do. My brother Aarlo, now 18, smarmed his way through a middle school production as Harold Hill, the singing salesman, in The Music Man. My brother Hugh, 16, plays banjo in a jug band. Called Hobo Slobo and the Strong-Armed Jugnuts, their first album, Liquor, Incest and Suspenders, mixes dulcet melodies and incisive lyrics with mockery of their jug band genre. As for me, I sing like a whoopee cushion.

Going home to Syracuse last Thanksgiving, Aarlo picked me up from the airport. In the car, we hummed along to The Beatles' "In My Life." "Isaac," Aarlo offered, "would you like me to teach you how to sing?" "

I can learn how to sing?"

"I don't know, but I can't make you sound any worse than you do now."

Exacting as a teacher, Aarlo forced me to sing songs as a progression of notes. I would hum along as he sang, training my throat to rise and fall along the contours of the piece. After days of do-re-mi scales and patient listening, I could play along with my brothers.

Back in sixth grade I imagined myself a rock star. Strumming my guitar, immune to teen angst, people would finally appreciate me for who I thought I was: a talented musician. As I grew, my dream dissipated. I soon knew that I could never become a singer.

As opposed to my preteen years, when I assumed my voice enchanted, now my actual ability is all-too-painfully clear. Yet I still sing, for the feeling of freedom I get when I do what I enjoy, naturally and poorly.

One day last spring, I marched down the streets with my brothers, arms linked, belting out Beatles songs. My heart felt light. "All You Need Is Love," we sang. And it was true.