Category: Things that make life better (Page 6 of 11)

Why you thinking about Channing Tatum? — this thing they warn you not to do can help you after all

February 21, 2023 / dancallaway

Moons ago, my friend Bryan and I wrote a screenplay together and even cooked up a reading at AFI.

While the script found its way to the

file, we learned a ton.

And I look back now and I think, “Dang – crazy what happens when you show up every day and call a bunch of folks.”

On one of our meet-up, procrastinate, and keep microwaving the same cup of coffee seshes, Bryan got an urgent blip blip on his Blackberry.

A friend from his Yale MFA days was in SOS distress.

Bryan called him back, and a carpet-pacing, brow-furrowed intervention ensued.

I heard his friend’s voice rising and falling, saying things like, “But you don’t underSTAND!”

Bryan listened, offering “I hear you,” and “Focus on your lane,” and “What’s the next thing you can do? What can you control?”

Then there was an extended-cut, multi-pitch closing argument.

My eavesdropping skills detected complaints about studio decisions, agent comments, and actors who got ALLL the opportunities.

Finally, a vein popped out over Bryan’s aforementioned brow. He stopped his classmate:

“Channing Tatum ain’t thinking about you! Why you thinking about Channing Tatum?!”

Bryan’s friend got trapped in the comparey dispairey thornbush. An invasive species, and once you get all up in it, you’re gonna need BandAids.

I’ve Neosporined many an encounter with this prickly customer.

And before you’re like, “Oh, Dan, I know. I know. Don’t compare myself to other people blah blahhh. It’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to… wait.”

Nope. That’s not what I’m gon’ say.

What I’m gon’ say is this:

Go ahead – think about Channing.

I said his name three times, so, like Beetlejuice, he appears.

And just like there’s no way you’ll ever “just get out of your head,” your brain’s always gonna put things side by side and notice differences.

?
This avocado is a lil softer than that one. Guacamole is tomorrow, so Avocado A.

?
This friend tells you you’ve got Charmin on your shoe, and that one regularly says, “I’m sorry you think I did something wrong.” Smart brain: spend more time with friend #1.

or

?
That Dodge truck driver in my rear view mirror is getting real close. They’re driving faster than anyone should on the Mass Pike. I’ll just proceed at equal speed to this person next to me in the right lane for a spell before I scoot over.

(I’m a New Englander now – the closer you tailgate, the slower I drive.)

Your brain’s a compare specialist; it could pundit on PBS Newshour weighing oat milk prices in one segment with a tight segue to Rotten Tomatoes ratings of Channing’s oeuvre.

But Dan, “Comparison is the THIEF of joy!”

Can be, yes.

All depends on what exit you take off the Pike once you’ve thwarted Dodge’s speed agenda for an acceptable distance.

One exit we jerk the wheel toward is Envytown (cue “Funkytown” hook.)

? Gotta make a move to a town with spite for me.

This is the strip mall-hedged boulevard where your brain indeed heists your joy – you couldn’t resist this exit. No one could.

There was a Sheetz AND a Wawa – you could grab a 1200 calorie Fluffer Nutter shake followed by your pick of TastyKakes.

Envy is wanting what someone else has —

Their job, their fitness, their singing skill, their travel, their recognition, their success.

I’ve envied all of these.

Just the memory of my innumerable I-want-what-you-gots squeezes my under-ribs. Oof.

Not my favorite zone.

It’s the Sheetz Shake and the TastyKake diminishing returns binge, a sugar crash, and what-chemicals-did-I-just-ingest? film on your tongue.

Envy leaves you similarly empty-full and ill-nourished.

The good news? Comparison has other roads you can take. See? You even need comparison to choose your route.

There’s the turn-off to Admiration-ham (I’m in Mass now. So many ‘hams.)

That looks like, “Wow, Lin Manuel, you wrote “Dos Orugitas” AND all that music in Vivo? I can’t get that outa my head. And we don’t talk about Bruno no no no…. Ah! Stop!”

There’s also the road to Reverence-cester – (pronounced Roostah).

When you revere something or someone, you show deep respect.

That’s like this:

Mr. Sondheim.

And speaking of names of German origin, there’s the village of Freudenfreude.

Joy-joy (as opposed to schadenfreude which we learned from Avenue Q means harm-joy, or what I’d feel if that Dodge got pulled over.)

Freudenfreude is when you find joy in other people’s good fortune.

I’m remembering a jig I did in a voice lesson last year when our collaborative pianist got her doctoral tuition fully funded. ? Go Katie! We miss you.

But wait. We’re not done thinking about Mr. Tatum just yet.

What about the times when you in fact want the thing the other person has? Maybe even want them not to have it. We’re all humans here.

?️ Here’s a map to another town. ?

Ask yourself —

What will having this thing do for me?

and

Can I be sure that if I had their thing it’d yield the result I think?

See what answers bubble up for you.

You might see yourself possessing that shiny doo-dad and notice you’re looking ahead for a shinier one. Hmmmm.

Or,

you notice living your own version of the thing would be terrific and satisfying. Then you have some crucial information.

You have an exciting thing you can work backward from, make a system, and start showing up.

And it’s when you start showing up every day — singing the exercises, writing the story, getting melody ideas down, calling your friends for the thing – that’s when you can follow Bryan’s advice and start thinking about YOU.

Because it’s then that you’ll be able to give the one and only you – and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

dan

ps here’s another video from the BoCo vault — a vocal exercise framework that you can use for yourself. It’s set up so you can take the principles and make up your own stuff. 15 minutes. You can pair it with the silly and effective voice and body warmup I shared with you last week.

If these are effective for you, go head and download for yourself in case the Google Drive does weird stuff or I change the videos.

pps I’ll keep you posted about how my fruitless Channing Tatum GIF searches affect my social and ads algorithms :).

ppps and my friend Bryan (Terrell Clark) does great things. Check him out.

you surprised? ? — threats of compulsory minimalism and soul gnawing envy on the Boston streets

February 7, 2023 / dancallaway

I’m always making idle threats that I’m going to do a pre-parenthood Marie Kondo guerilla house sweep. The boys’ toy supply will have two wooden blocks, a panel of fabric, and a meditation chime.

Seismic rage rumbles in my guts when I try to knock some order into the pile of plastic wheely things crammed behind our sectional.

For some reason this doesn’t bother Melissa.

What? This is right next to our window. Janet across the way can see right in here. The producers of Hoarders will be ringing our doorbell any day.

This is why when Melissa asks me if I need anything when a birthday approaches, I almost always say, “Just hugs.”

We don’t need more stuff, y’all!

But then the boys brought me a package before my birthday last December, and life changed.

Inside? A gray backpack.

But I already had a backpack.

Okay, it didn’t fit all my stuff. It was hard to fish things out of. My lunch bag rarely fit. And I walked the Boston streets consumed with side-pocket envy because mine would slowly extract my coffee cup and expel it onto the sidewalk with a violent clang.

But then I unzipped the new arrival and saw — it was a pocket extravaganza. A compartment kaleidoscope. All manner of organizational coordinations appeared in my dreamscape.

Then I felt immediately overwhelmed.

How would I keep up with all these pockets? Surely one day while searching for a hole-punch, I’d exhume an ossified tube of chapstick wasting away for decades beneath a desiccated turkey sandwich.

But I took a deep breath and gave it a try.

And now just call me Professor Poppins – ready to procure music stands, full-bound scores, and yoga balls out of my satchel on demand.

This backpack made my life better.

It’s something I didn’t know I wanted, and every time I slide my laptop into its cozy pouch, give it a zip, and sling its padded back panel against my scapulae, life smells like a new delux box of Crayolas.

You had any backpacks in your life? I hope so.

The master’s students and I were talking in class last week — how you make a plan so the plan can change. You make a framework so there’s a structure that flexes with surprises.

I notice a lot of folks on the YouTubes and the like saying, “Make a PLAN. Glue pictures to cardboard. Tape it beside your bathroom mirror. And then go make that shit happen! Go!”

Smash Your Comfort Zone! Level Up! Best Life!

And yes, I do believe that we humans need things to look forward to. Seems it’s a crucial battery for well-being.

But what’s more important is that while we’re smearing Elmer’s Glue on the back of that cut-out feature from Architectural Digest, life might have a nondescript gray backpack waiting in a box.

In that master’s pedagogy class, I was crying (again) because I was sharing how life can nudge, prod, and pinball you exactly where you’re supposed to be.

? The job I have now? I didn’t even know it was a thing until my friend Val sent me the ad. (She should be running a head hunter side hustle while she music directs the national tour of SIX — go ahead, Val.)

? The home we live in now? It wasn’t on the market when I scurried around Boston trying to find a two-bedroom without 47 death stairs to the front door or a “cozy charming study” that smelled like room temp bleu cheese.

Only after we lost the workable overpriced place did my friend Lydia rage-search the MLS and see this spot had just appeared 20 minutes before.

❤️‍? And I definitely didn’t plan to be anything other than a solitary music monk for the rest of my life when ride-or-dies Kaye, Kim, and Ryan convalesced my pulverized self in their Valley Village guest room and Humpty Dumptied me back together again – I had zero coupling aspirations when I met Melissa in their backyard.

? The best things in my life came as surprises, and they came because of the people around me.

So, for you today, a reminder and a question.

First the reminder: ? You can trust life to carry you where you’re supposed to be. Be smart, grab something that floats, and hang on.

And a question –

? And are you sharing surprises? If you’re loving the folks around you, the surprise sharing will prolly just happen.

So yeah,

✅ Okay with surprises? and

✅ Are you sharing them when you can?

Two simple Qs that’ll help that backpack you’re carrying feel a little lighter — AND hold your coffee!

And always remember there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

dan

ps here’s a short warmup framework video I made for my BoCo kidz –

warmup is what we do to get our bodies ready to sing. You don’t need a piano. You just need you, some space, and the ability to make some noise.

pps You know I’m writing a book? There might be videos too. We’ll see. It’s about singing. And life. And joy. And healing.

And it can also be about something you wish someone would put in a book about singing and life and joy and healing.

So why don’t you write me back and tell me, “You know, Dan I think you should really tell people about this in the book about singing. No one ever talks about this.”?

Maybe I’ll write you a chapter about it ✍️. Hit reply, and lemme know!

ppps I’m not gonna leave you hanging on the backpack. It’s a Matein.

Don’t look up there — free advice (solicited and un-), sidewalk hubris, and cake

January 31, 2023 / dancallaway

There’s a spot on Lansdowne Street right below Fenway Pahk’s Green Monstah. The pavement crack you avoid (for your mother’s spinal wellbeing) is covered in pigeon dookie.

I avoid this side of the street when I race-walk to the commuter rail station after convincing myself yet again that an 11-minute walk only takes 8. (and don’t wanna get kicked off the express for leaping on a moving train again.)

But yeah, the south side of Lansdowne —

It’s shady, so that means cold in winter. Uncheck.

It’s narrow, so awkward shoulder navigation with Sawx pilgrims. Uncheck.

And there’s the pigeon toilet problem.

The first time I strolled that side, I noted white-grey splats Jackson Pollocking the pavement, and though I knew it was grave folly, I looked skyward.

Just looked right on up — in case there was a fresh row of pigeons ready to evacuate on my Warby Parkers.

Luckily, the fowl ball club was scavenging Sausage Guy roll leftovers. But still. Poop on the ground? Maybe keep walking and don’t look up.

I was a deft doodoo dodger that day. But there were other times when feces found me.

One self-important pre-audition stroll in Central Park, I was saying my mantras and asking God to grant me superpowers when I felt a smatter-patter on my right backpack strap. When I noticed the dirty WhiteOut offering on my shoulder, I did have the good sense to laugh.

But yeah. We don’t walk near the doo, no no no no.

THEN — the other day I was giving my best Richard Simmons to the train (more time delusions) and saw a young woman navigating the path below the high northern stands.

Sure enough, she noticed the Columba caca, and just like I did that day, she paused. And performed a thorough rafter check.

She survived her hubris unscathed, but yeah: When there’s birdy turdy at your feet, keep your eyes groundward — if you have to get #2’d on, you want it on the noggin and not in the nostril.

Sometimes I wish there were a universal manual with clear-cut directions like —

Avoid the the Green Monstah undahbelly.

Straightforward, right?

Or when you learn to sing show tunes for folks. Things like —

Give your eyes a break every now and then from that spot on the wall they told you to pretend was a person. Looks stalkery.

or

Most times, you need less of what you’re calling breath support.

or

You’re gonna need some different vowels. Well-meaning folk told you to sing like you speak, but physics says nope.

You got something you wish somebody would just TELL you how to do? Hand you the secret dog-eared manual with the step-by-step?

While I can’t help you with dishwasher repair, I’ve ?ed plenty a bed when it comes to all things song and story (and helped several others change their sheets.)

So, I know some things.

And I’m a teachery sort, so I suffer from an incessant need to tell folks things I know.

My family loves it.

So, can you help me?

Here’s how —

Email me your voice mystery.

Hit reply, and say, “Dear TeacherDan, The singery thing I’ve never gotten a satisfying answer to is ….”

And let me know.

Noise making, audition room consternation, what am I even doing? ?

Send it my way.

I’ll write you back or make you a lil video that’ll scratch my unsatisfiable itch to share info.

This is for you if you’ve ever been like, “I wish I could just ASK a voicey person how to fix this and they’d answer my question without me plopping down a large slice of my rent.”

Seriously, get out your fingies and type your burning question.

And if you don’t remember anything else from today’s letter, remember this:

There’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,
dan

ps Here are answers to questions you didn’t even ask me — all baking related.
The best chocolate cake recipe you’ll ever make. (It’s Ina Garten)
The best biscuit recipe you’ll ever bake. (not even from a Southerner ?)
And more baking — a terrific last minute delicious cheaty bread recipe.

pps You wanna hear some beautiful straight-from-the-heart sangin? Look what the YouTube algorithm delivered up to me this week: “She Used to Be Mine” sung by Sara Bareilles and Brandie Carlile.

ppps And sirriously. Write and ask anything singy, auditiony, your relationship to music-y. I’m HERE for it.

Choreplay ? — dishwasher’s empty. laundry’s folded. Alexa, play Barry White.

January 24, 2023 / dancallaway

Melissa and I can get all flirty birdy kicking around the house.

Ewwww, Dad. I know.

But I’m lucky. When someone tells you they like how those jeans look, it’s nice.

These days, such flirt-portunities appear like fleeting comets. Most of the time we can’t hear each other talk.

Someone’s being a T-Rex, demolishing the other’s train, or belting “The Nutcracker March.”

I see Melissa’s lips move and hear sounds, but intelligible phonemes? No chance.

So– when there’s quiet —

When “Bluey”’s on, the boxed wine flows, the spaghetti burbles, and “A Case of You” twings through the Bose, we shnuggle by the stove and share spicy idears about what could happen after the boys go to bed.

Then we rendezvous at 8pm in our noiseless house… (except for our neighbors. What’s going ON over there?) …we rendezvous craving just one thing: induced coma.

Friends try to tell you how it is keeping young children alive, but just like the MLM pitch your friend assured you was an antioxidant juice party, you don’t know ’til you’re there.

So, I stoke the hottie home fires in other ways:

Step 1: I get up before the sun.

Step 2: get some breakfast in the crew

Step 3: may do a load of laund-a-ry.

Step 4: unload the dishes, put the flatware in the drawer

Step 5: Get dinner in that Instant Pot jive

Step by step gonna get to you girl. ?

Then my phone BLOWS UP allll day ? about how hawt that toasty load of laundry is while the house gets aroma(n)tic with my special slow-cooker turkey chili spice blend. ?

I’m good at doing stuff for other folks.

I’m crap at doing stuff for myself.

If it weren’t for Melissa, I’d rarely wash my face, and I’d sprout Christopher Lloyd professor-brows from my frontispiece like a possessed wire fox terrier.

You in this club, too?

Not the Doc Brow Crowd.

The Doing Good Things for Yourself Oh Wait I Forgot Society. The dehydrated, crusty-knuckled, still-gotta-pee brigade.

Oh, you’re the treasurer. And volunteered to take minutes. Yes, I see you.

Ahem. May I ask you to put down your Robert’s Rules of Order for a sec?

? Thanks — Now — can you think back to a far away time and tell me —

What’s the last good/nourishing thing you did for you?

(I’m telling myself it’s the bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios I’m eating (I even added roasted almonds), but that’s not what I’m getting at.)

What’s something you’ve done for you that’s investy?

I’m asking you because we’re here by the coffee percolator at the Society meeting, and you might be saying things to yourself like —

❌ I don’t actually need that class at Jen Waldman’s studio my friend raved about.

? I should figure that out on my own. I don’t need Mike Ruckles to tell me my breath’s jacked. I already got a BFA. And there’s YouTube.

? I can’t know this is worth my cash. I got inflated city rent to pay and $10 eggs to buy. Besides, my vocal coach took two phone calls MID-SESSION last time.

I understand. (That vocal coach bit really happened. More than once.)

But sirrously, remember the last time you did the investy thing?

Did you get surprised? You learn an unexpected oh-yeeeaah? Or did the path light up showing you a step you couldn’t see before?

Or maybe you felt that honey-buzz in your guts because you did something kind. For you.

Years ago, I plopped down money I was scared to spend to coach with LA Chutspa Menschela Barbara Deutsch when I needed to grow my studio biz. Like, exorbitant-interest-wolves-at-the-door need.

She told me two things that cleared the fog and helped me breathe again; and 14(?) years later I keep those tools top of the box.

Hey, I have an idea. ?

In case you feel your heart tapping you on the shoulder saying:

❤️‍?: “I wanna feel freedom, release, express, get heard, enjoy, feel great, heal, and sing some tunes!

“Oh, and singing tickles our vagus nerve and helps us chill the eff out. It’s science!”

You got choices:

? hop in the shower and belt “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

☎️ call your in-network voice care provider and set up a consultation

or

⭐️?⭐️ email me back.

While skewl has me spring semester zany, and the Feb Special-Special crew is full, there remain some rare, cozy corners of my calendar waiting for us to nestle in and make shameless sounds.

You can celebrate like my friend David who SOS’d me on Instagram last month.

All I did was send him a 5 minute video with some idears. He just took it from there.

Or we can get in there all heart melty like I roll with the BoCo kids.

? This is why I’m the luckiest — I get to teach the best kids.

And there are the endless opportunities for grinning and belting like Michael Tatlock and I do on a Thursday evening:

The party’s hot, so get in here with us. nnn-ts nnn-ts nnn-ts ?

Before you know it, you’ll be getting all manner of vocal chore hacks, and like Ina Garten pouring a scalding pot of cavatappi into a colander for Jeffrey, you’ll muse amid the rising steam, “How easy was that?”

Just tickle this link or hit reply.

I’ll write you back, ask you questions, and we’ll work it all out.

Can’t wait!

And whatever scintillating chore you’re fixing to do right now, always remember, there’s one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing.

Now go do something nice — for you! ?

love much,
dan

ps You know I wouldn’t leave you hanging about the vibrato-limp wrist connection. I also call it rubber chicken.

Here’s the video I sent to David.

pps The folks mentioned above are top notch.
Jen Waldman Studio — whole hearted acting/singing/artist training
Mike Ruckles Voice AND piano wowee zowee
and
Barbara Deutsch wise career coach and somebody you just wanna listen to ?

ppps Wait! You were gonna email me about that 1-on-1 time? Just click here and press send. I already wrote the email for you.

Hot tub time machine — vexing cellular memory and belly bubbles

January 17, 2023 / dancallaway

This was not what I expected when I got in the jacuzzi.

Last December in Florida, Melissa and I worked out a tag team system with Uncle Rob at the pool so that we could grab 10 minute soaks in the resorty hot tub.

A cover of “Last Christmas” piped through palm-concealed speakers, and I tingled with spa-ticipation as I cranked the timer to get the whirlpool whirling.

I dipped my toesies in and slid my back in front of the perfect jet. Sigh.

My expectations for soothing Zen blurble blurbles burst, though, when I noticed some other kinds of gurgles in my guts — and it was’t Uncle Rob’s famous Buffalo chicken dip.

No one warned me that the jacuzzi in Fort Myers, Florida, was actually the famed Hot Tub Time Machine.

It slurped me through a wormhole like a reverse waterslide, and I splashed down somewhere around 2011.

I was doing a show at Laguna Playhouse, and the actor housing was swank; by swank I mean in-unit laundry AND a pool.

I was burning myself out teaching seven days a week and fighting the 5 Freeway to get to rehearsals and call times.

My spouse at the time was living and working in New York, and we’d been doing three-times-zones long distance for a while.

One morning, I took a rare and brazen break and decided to relax in the complex’s hot tub.

She’d landed at Burbank Airport that day, and I assumed that top of the to-do list would be to toodle on down to Laguna’s sunny shores.

When I clickety clacked my BlackBerry asking when I should expect her, I learned she’d be remaining in LA for a few days.

I’d honed a deft practice of constructing an impenetrable excuse edifice for any questionable/shitty thing my partner did at that time.

In a mere four minutes of mental gymnastics, I’d perform an intricate uneven bars routine with a wobbly-yet-committed dismount that announced, “See? This red flag is in fact a party decoration!”

But my brain was an exhausted Mary Lou Retton that day.

My lil thumbs clicked off another query: why would one fly across the North American continent and not prioritize a visit with one’s spouse?

I don’t remember the answer, but I do recall leaning out of that hot tub in Laguna Beach staring at my phone feeling like Steve Martin’s Dentist from Little Shop was drilling inside my stomach.

zhoooop

Back in the today times — there I sat in the disappointing Fort Myers hot tub, and my gut cells decided to let some more of this memory on out.

My brain went to busy bee mode: ?? analyze the situation, construct a reframe to mitigate all intense/unpleasant sensations. (There was no cereal on hand.)

But somehow in this moment I knew that I just needed to let it burble—boil boil toil and trouble up just like the chlorinated jacooze swirl.

It hurt.

My body got vacuumed into this movie where the person I wanted to put me somewhere near the top of the list just didn’t.

And then the truth emerged from the Floridian Hot Tub Time Machine like alligator side-eyes I was finally ready to see.

Back then, I was nowhere near the top of my own to-be-taken-care-of list.

Before I count the ways for you, lemme ask you a question–

❓You got times in your life when you look back with your more integrated eyeballs❓

You check the rear view, and you know exactly what you shoulda said and how you shoulda acted in that scenario.

But then, you review that scene and understand that expecting that version of you to advocate or hold a boundary would be the same as demanding a crash victim in a body cast to crank out ten push-ups.

That’s where I was.

It wasn’t until a year later when I went to therapy — by myself — to figure out how to save the marriage that I started to report what was happening to another human being.

As I said things out loud, I gained some distance from the hornets’ nest that I’d been poking.

I started to understand that I was the one. I was treating me like shit.

The hot tub scenario is one of the reasons that we half-ass our singing too.

If we take the 30 seconds to ask what this lyric means to us, it’ll pull up things that our genius psyches buried years ago.

To be an alive human singing, you have to open yourself to what might bubble up.

But instead, we plan and plot and stick to the script.

This is like avoiding a tricky conversation because you can’t control what the other person is going to say.

The captivating and scary thing about life is that we don’t know what’s going to happen next.

We don’t know what our dear friend who misunderstood us is going to say.

We don’t know what the motorist in front of us is going to do.

And we don’t know what treats our subconscious is gonna serve up.

Could be Pop Tarts. Could be EPCOT. Could be that time you haven’t worked through the shame of it all and swore to never think about again.

But your courage to be surprised makes all the difference in the world when you sing —

— all the difference between an open, alive heart serving truth treats and a shielded, cold ego calculating each note with a self conscious grip on a control delusion.

You know the difference. You’ve seen it.

You’ve thought, “Hmmmm, their voice is nice, but I just can’t make myself care.”

“They’re doing all the right things, and I forgot what just happened.”

These is what makes us leave the theater upset that we parted with the price of a ticket and pissed that we didn’t just go get a cheeseburger at intermission.

But, when someone opens their heart and says yep to whatever may come up in front of theatre-full of folks fighting to keep a cast iron lid on their stuff, you leave satisfied and changed. You may even want to slide the lid off your own Le Creuset just a little.

The hot tub experience made me all wiggle waggle, and it hurt.

And I decided I would sit there, breathe, and let it bubble on through.

The great thing about feelings is that most of the time they start and then they stop. Most of the time, if you remember that sensations come and go, you can ride it out.

It’s also found that opening to these gut surprises makes life vibrant.

If you’re game to feel the brave feels, you’ll roll out the carpet for joy, gratitude, and other forms of effervescence.

Your welcome mat’s out for connection; and it’s a robust, risky, pink-cheeked way to live.

And it makes your singing deep and satisfying.

You can craft a song, understand where it fires in your body, and season every vowel with your own secret soul sauce — that’s a hearty stew to serve.

And someone in the audience will relish that.

You’ve felt that.

Who are the artists who’ve helped you feel alive and filled from the most delicious meal?

They’ve prepped the ingredients, said yes to burns, knife nicks, and boiled-over pots, and they’ve served up a perfectly imperfect meal with crusty bread and love.

So, what if you found something you can say to yourself that spurs you to open up and play?

Something like, “I can fire the hearth and get chopping, or I can microwave this Amy’s burrito. Let’s get cooking, see what happens.” ? (no shade to Amy’s)

And like your kitchen garden where the carrots and arugula grow, you need sunshine and water.

When I let my tears fall, they’re great soil waterers. And there’s always a surprise seed or three some birdy dropped there that turns into a flower or a fruit tree.

Even the weeds can be great — you ever had dandelion greens?

Most of all, remember there’s only one hot tub soaking, garden pottering, love cooker you, and folks need to hear the stories that can only bubble, boil, braise and simmer from your heart(h) where you sing while you stir.

Love much and chew slow,
dan

ps I love Anne Lamott. Here’s a terrific interview with her and Tim Ferris that filled me with grace this week.

Trapper Keeper confession — you can’t keep all your enoughness in those folders ?️

January 11, 2023 / dancallaway

The older child in the Calla-fam is a sqireller of the first degree. ?

Laundry comes out with all manner of plastic accoutrements spun out of trouser pockets.

On our way back to Massachusetts from NC, we headed into a Burger King when Noah grabbed my hand and said, “Daddy, I’m sorry I got this.”

He extracted one of his Gram’s necklaces from his jeans like a sheepish pirate unsure of his calling. ?‍☠️

Gram thought it was a hoot, and the necklace accessorized his Burger King crown very well.

I told Noah I was grateful he told me. I want to make sure our boys know they can tell us anything. I’m working on it.

I recalled my own brief yet intense stent with childhood kleptomania after Matthew Royster told me the items in the Mayberry Mall Kmart lacking price tags were free.

Even after I learned that this merchandise lesson was bogus, I still struggled with a penchant for purloining Dr. Pepper Bubble Yum.

I even lifted a Trapper Keeper in fifth grade, and to this day I still don’t know what drove me to such an unnecessary and obvious crime. I HAD a Trapper Keeper.

I think the victim of my crime even mentioned, “Hey, my Trapper Keeper looked just like that one.”

“Oh, really?” ?

I knew what I did was wrong, and I felt ashamed.

As a dad now, I ask — how can I model healthy and whole choices while opening my heart when the boys make decisions that don’t shout health and wholeness? Working on it.

???
Cut to a few days later — we were back home, and I planned a scintillating outing to Weston Nurseries and the Town Forest. It was gonna be plants kinda day.

We did our best to keep the boys’ hands off of the rare exotic species, smelled the nice greenhouse air, and admired a display of geodes in the middle of the ferns.

Jude had a learn-the-hard-way encounter with a cactus, and we picked up a couple of Crotons —

Google said they were fussy roomies, but their bright leaves lured us to take the risk. We’re suckas for colah.

See? They’re pretty. Pray for us.

???

We engaged the next phase of perfect dad-plan day, and we drove toward the Town Forest. And by Town Forest, I mean the KidSpot playground after a definitive vote by acclamation from the back seat.

We got to the parking lot, and before Noah grabbed my hand, he said, “Daddy, I’m sorry I took this rock.”

He produced a beautiful amethyst geode from his coat pocket.

I felt a knee-jerk impulse vomit itself up from my guts to act a little shocked and indignant, but I saw little Trapper Keeper keeping 11-year-old me, and thank God I took a split second.

“Oh buddy, that’s not something that we can take from the store. That belongs to them. We’re going to need to take that back.”

The boys played for half an hour, and then we toodled back down Highway 135.

We said, “Noah, listen buddy. You didn’t understand. We’re just going to go in, and you can tell them you thought this was a rock that you could collect like you do in the woods.”

Even though we said this, he was still afraid to take the stone back in. He scrunched his little body down as if he were looking for a little cubbyhole to hide in.

It was humbling for me to see his sweet four-year-old heart trying to hide away like we all do.

I said, “Buddy, I’ll be with you the whole time, and everything will be all right, I promise. I’m grateful you told me.”

We walked back into the store, and the woman who’d rung us up, wrapped our fussy plants, and told us about her grandkids said, “Oh no, is anything wrong?”

I gave Noah a little rub on the back to let him know he could talk.

He held out the amethyst and said, “I’m sorry I took this purple rock.”

Before I could launch in with any codependent explanation, the woman said, “Oh, sweetie, where did you pick that up?”

Noah pointed to the greenhouse, and she replied, “You know what, I love how honest you were bringing that back to us. Is it OK if I just give it to you?”

Noah’s face lit up like a gem show, and he nodded his head.

It was a tender lesson that went better than I could’ve imagined, and Weston Nurseries has my business for life.

And it made me think about things like guilt, shame, hiding, and Trapper Keepers.

How often does the knuckley shame claw grab you when you’ve made an honest mistake?

It’s deep.

And it suffocates our chance for breathing room and growing.

If you just look at singing, shame can

strangle our natural sound; it insists we need to add something,

berates our musicianship; reminds us how adept that cast mate was at everything,

points at the gap between our abilities and an artist’s we admire,

and concludes, “What’s the use?”

This is the thing that stops singers from taking the time to read, mark, and inwardly digest their rep.

Who am I to take this text and these melodies and invest the time to feel what’s real in my guts that would cause me to say these words and sing these notes?

I’ll just copy that real singer who already did it.

That’s the root of meh, forgettable, samey singing.

We don’t give ourselves the space or possibility to know that our singular voice and point of view is irreplaceable, no matter what Beyoncé circa ’06 said.

Shame says there’s a right answer, and yours is prolly wrong. You’re wrong.

When I started college voice lessons, I hit myself when I made a mistake. I open-hand smacked my thigh, volcanic when I missed a note, cracked, or struggled in any way.

Into my late 30s, I’d get the note, “Dan, lift your eyes, please, we’re losing you in the lights.” I spent a lot of time looking down at the stage. Wanting to share my heart while my body worked to keep hiding.

It was a painful way to live.

So, what helped?

Here are three things:

Somehow, I got the download that I’m enough, and I believe it most of the time.

I don’t have a step-by-step on this. I’ve just been super gifted to have beautiful folks in my life who tell me the truth, give me hugs, and call me out with love. I’ve been smart enough to listen.

I ask myself if things feel stressful.

From my heart’s eyes, I look at my thoughts and words.

How do I feel when I believe this? If the answer is “shitty,” I ask if there’s a reframe. Is there a more generous way to see this? Almost always, there is.

I’m grateful for guilt.

I learned from Brené that shame and guilt are different.

Guilt says “What I did was shitty.” Shame says, “I’m shit.”

When I feel guilt, I call myself to an integrated standard. I cop to the Trapper Keeper and make amends.

This gut-ouch is there to point me to the whole and healthy human I wanna be who shares love. At the grocery store, in the classroom, and on the stage — all three places a privilege to be.

So, I invite you to notice when Shame-a-blame-a-ding-dong bonks you on the noggin.

Reach out to someone you love and trust, and let them remind you who you are.

Ask them to help you with a little reframe while they’re at it.

And if there’s something you’d like to make amends for, see what kind of steps you can take that are kind and restorative.

With your singing, let me assure you:

you’re more enough than you can even handle. That’s what’s so scary about letting our voice through.

Notice the thoughts that jib jab at you when you sing. Take a little time to see if they’re really true. (Answer Key: they’re not.)

And make amends with you. The first thing you can try is, “I’m sorry for not letting you sing.”

Then hum a tune you love.

And always remember — there’s only one you, and folks do need to hear the story only you can sing.

Oh the Places You’ll Toe to Toe — three tiny sentences that’ll help you head off hurt, distance, and misunderstanding … with you

December 6, 2022 / dancallaway

The roughest fights Melissa and I ever slogged through had a three-part theme.

If you go back through our history of heart hurts, thwacked-off communication, and defensive Judo blocks honed in childhood, you’ll see a repeated dysfunction trio:

One — I wouldn’t let my heart be in the environment of Melissa’s painful feelings. (They might’ve cracked the dam holding back my own.)

Two — I tried to punch out problems rather than hugging her hurt.

Three — I advised her how she could just reframe her perception— and then she wouldn’t have to experience all that soul anguish.

Your grimace tells me you already surmised — this three-step method yielded the opposite of connection and trust.

We even named a few landmarks around town where some of our most intense anger erupted. Usually in peaceful nature walky spots. ???

After many rounds on the Craytown Carousel, I started noticing my behavior. I even listened to Melissa.

Upon some reflection, help from wise folks, and a little empathy, I imagined how I’d feel if I was in the pit of raw vulnerability and Melissa barreled in clad in emotion armor, swung a mace at all the concern-dragons flying around my heart, and assured me that if I just saw things a little differently, I’d admit that my perception was just an illusion of my own masochistic creativity.

As eager as I may be for an opportunity to dissociate from emotional discomfort, I could see the pain all my problem pummeling (read: control) caused.

I had to change this.

So, I looked at my Three Sure Steps to Reactive Emotional Distance and reverse engineered.

Before I tell you what I learned, may I invite you to think about a thing of yours?

It could be singing. It could be life.

(You may’ve put together that your singing is a trusty compass for your life things, too.)

Let’s say it’s jaw tension.

Or that head jutty thing your teacher’s been telling you about.

Or maybe it’s a habit you sense is thwarting your wellbeing — and you have a standing appointment to beat yourself up about said struggle.

How do you notice that you talk about that thing?

In a lesson or coaching — Oh, it’s my tongue tension. I can’t get rid of it. Oogghh I just need to RELAX.

Do you notice how the cells around the gossiped-about area respond to these pronouncements?

Or how do you react if you’re worked up about something and someone says to you, “Just relax!”?

Not a helpful statement in my experience.

What if you met these things with understanding?

What if you used the reverse-three-steps?

Here you go —

One — Notice your thing. Where does it light up in your body? Just notice it and any kind of sensation that activates around it.

Now, what if you say this?

“I’m here.”

Keep noticing.

Two — Now, what if you say this next?

“I love you.”

I love you, muscle engagement that’s taking over my tongue when I’m trying to sing this note. I love you, neck jut. I love you, thing I’m doing that I wanna stop(?) but can’t(?).

It’s not the first thing you wanna say to something you’d like to banish from your presence, but give it a try. How does it respond?

Three — Now give this a try:

“I understand.”

Or if you don’t understand —

“I want to understand. I’m trying to understand.”

And notice.

What happens to the energy around that thing?

In my experience, the teeth-grit knot I’ve cinched around myself gets looser.

And I see the reason the thing might’ve been there in the first place.

That jaw tension may have kept you alive when you were a kid and some things weren’t safe to let out.

That neck jut may be your body saying “I have to reach out to be heard. I can’t trust that anyone will come to me.”

The two and a half bowls of Lucky Charms at 10:30 pm may just be “If I let this intense energy I feel in my guts come up, I don’t know if there’ll be anyone there to tell me it’s gonna be all right. I’ll give it an inside sugar hug instead.”

When we meet these things with understanding, they can shift.

We did this last Friday in the master’s teaching seminar at BoCo, and folks said terrific things like

“The judgment seems to fall off of it when I look at it this way.”

“It doesn’t feel heavy anymore.”

“It turns into choices, and I have somewhere to go.”

(I have the best job. So lucky.)

I wanna invite you into these three things to say — to those you love and to you you love.

I’m here.

I love you.

I (want to) understand.

Just think how different the world would be if folks said this kind of stuff to each other and to themselves.

The good news is that you and I can be the one.

And when those around you notice that a little love and tenderness is objectively terrific, maybe they’ll wanna give it a go.

As you practice this, remember there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the song only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

ps This interview with Brene Brown and Bono from Unlocking Us was terrific.

pps The good word from the socials from me to you this week:

YouTube: Four Ways You’re Making Singing Harder than it Needs to Be (how to breathe in)

or you can also get these through the studio FB Page.

And from the ‘gram, here’s Walk to Work Wednesday, a riff on turning rules into choices. And if you missed the week before, here’s a rarely-heard POV on goals and believing in yourself. Get ready to take the pressure off.

Like, follow, lemme hear from you.

ppps And watch this space this month for news about monthly NYC workshops starting in January. Chances for you to work with me one on one or in groups — unlocking skill and beauty through your story and your brilliant body who already knows how to do a lot of things. I can’t wait. If you want to get updates about this, just email me.

Just pissed in Plymouth — That’s not what a bowling pin’s for. And I want my money back on the New England summah.

November 29, 2022 / dancallaway

We visited Plymouth (the one with the Rock) last summer.

We saw the Mayflower

and the Moo-flower. Here are the boys and Gram.

We learned how the Wampanoag grew food and hollowed canoes.

We found out only rich pilgrims had floors, and Noah stumped one of docents with a 17th Century dental hygiene question. (Though her dialect and character commitment were impressive.)

The boys went deep on colonist cosplay,

and while Noah continued world building, Jude and I set up pins and a leather ball for a bowling game outside. Short-lived. (As was the knock-the-hoop-down-the-lane-with-a-stick game. Though Jude was impressed by my make-the-hula-hoop-come-back-to-you trick.)

Then, I managed a dispute over who would gallop on the one stick-horse to rule them all.

I finally sat my sweaty self down for a rest when a family festooned in LA Dodger gear rolled into the medicinal herb garden.

Two boys belonging to this gaggle picked up the bowling pins and the leather-bound ball.

And played baseball.

They pitched the ball and thwacked line drives that nearly decapitated the lavender shrubs.

Those implements were meant for King James era BOWLING!

Where was their parent????

Oh. There.

Snapping iPhone pics and chortling as if she were about to exclaim, “Now that’s what I call outside-the-bowl thinking!”

I gulped water from Jude’s Elmo cup and seethed in the mid-afternoon humidity. (New England was NOT coming through on my 85-degrees-tops summer dreams.)

But, seriously, what was my problem with these kids?

In our own house, we’ve tried to make the rules simple — “It’s okay unless it hurts people or property.”

These Blue-Crew-capped preteens were damaging neither. Not yet, anyway.

But, it felt disrespectful. Someone hand-made those pins and ball so kids could old-times bowl in the designated area, and these knuckle-noggins were rolling in like they owned the reproduction settlement.

Reminded me of bartending in London. I could hear a fellow American two streets away swaggering like the corrupt sheriff in a B-Western.

Oblivious to the culture they were visiting and barking questions like, “Hey, where’s the ice and my free refill? You don’t have to tip here, right? That’s cool.”

In both instances — bowling baseball and bothered British bartending — there was a common experience: stress, anxiety, and contraction.

These folks weren’t following my rules. And my rules rest on objective fact and acute observation, of course.

Those are bowling pins in Plymouth, therefore bowl.

This is London. Ice in your drink isn’t a given; you dry your clothes on a rack in the kitchen; and the time I saw the woman on the Tube silently mouthing the recipe for her Yorkshire pudding to the man opposite her gave me the hint to turn down the voice volume in most public spaces.

Ah! People!

Look behind you and hold the door if someone’s coming. If someone holds the door for you, say thank you. If someone lets you in front of them in traffic, throw up a hand. And for God’s sake, stop talking on your phone on the train! No one wants to hear you yammer all the way through Wellesley!

Here’s the ouchy part, though.

The ways I yell at these clue-free ingrates in my brain? Ever so clandestinely, those are the grumpy royal decrees I hand down to me.

To escape this tyranny, I just wanna find the nearest Mayflower. Only I can’t take a miserable, stormy voyage on a cramped ship away from myself.

That’s why there’s night cereal, YouTube, and podcasts.

When it comes to our singing, the rules get real mean.

That’s not the right sound.

I’m not breathing right.

My break is terrible.

I’m stuck! I’ll never stop thinking about my technique!

We stop ourselves from making a sound before we can even let one rough-draft through our body.

RULES!

Stuff needs to sound a certain way, and we need to make sure it’s gonna sound that way before it leaves our face.

Or else?

Embarrassment, feeling rejected, calling ourselves a failure, believing we’ll never get it. Telling ourselves we won’t gain the skills to express what we want when the adrenaline’s pulsing; therefore, we won’t be able to do the thing we dream about (and don’t reveal to anyone because they’ll think we’re crazy.)

It’s a self-perpetuating game of torture thought pinball.

How about this, though? What if you set the rule page aside?

What if you scrawled out that title with your favorite crayon and wrote, “Choices”?

Hmmmmm.

If I could make any sound here, what kind of sound would I choose?

What kind of breath would I take if I realized, “Well, if that’s love, it comes at much too high a coooooost?”

What if I could try different paths through the tricky pitches? And let myself fall and get up?

I wonder if there’s a way to think about technique AND the story in a both-and kind of situation.

When you ask questions like this, things lighten up, and you see places you can step. Before you know it, you’ve walked a few paces, and something that feels like fun and satisfaction bubbles up.

Me likey!

(And if you need specific help, email me for a lesson. I’m end-of-semester busy, but we’ll figure out a time. Just reply and ask.)

So, I invite you to notice this week.

When does your rule committee rear its many heads? Notice how it feels inside when you say things like “I would never….,” “Why would they do that?….” and “What’s WRONG with them?”

If you sit and watch for 9 seconds, you’ll prolly see where you berate you in similar fashion.

I’m realizing that 45% of my letters to you end up asking, “How are you talking to you?”

And it’s because it’s that important. The environment you cultivate in your own garden is everything when it comes to what kind of medicinal herbs you grow. Just look out for bowling ball line drives.

But yeah, just notice. Slow your breath. Soften your face. Melt your shoulders. And watch. Who do you like to slam the rules on? And where are you slamming them on yourself?

What if you wrote CHOICES in Sea Green at the top of your page and asked again?

Try it. And as my father-in-law says in his deep, Rhode Island baritone, “Enjoy. God bless.”

Because it’s true. There’s just one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can sing. And you’ll sing it with joy if you give your voice a chance to try a thing or three.

Love much,
dan

ps I’ve been enjoying these vintage playlists on YouTube — good for your holiday mixes in case Mariah’s invading your brain already.

pps Did I tell you I’m thankful for you? I am. ?

ppps Check out the Voice Collective on the IG — two terrific MFAs from the BoCo Cassi and Will laying out terrific tools, tips, and voicey love.

Who’s it for? — How I got more peace in my head and made the committee my ally.

November 22, 2022 / dancallaway

Journey with me back to my 20s any time I got an audition appointment. And witness me careen through the 12(?) stages of casting madness.

Stage 1: (212) area code calls. Hello, BroadWAY?

2: What’s the project? When’s it open? Who’s directing? What clever joke will I use for my custom opening night favors?

3: Wait, I have to learn the audition packet.

4: Better call my acting teacher, vocal coach, and numerologist.

5: Wait, look at the sides and the music!

6: Obsess. “What’re the table people looking for?” Examine the character breakdown forty-seven times to unlock the cypher that’ll reveal the perfect acting choices. (The numerologist didn’t come through on this.)

7: Finally, learn the material — enough so that I think that I know it, but not so much that I pour too much heart into it and get disappointed. And not enough to be in-my-body prepared when audition adrenaline kicks in. I can always blame it on self-sabotage.

8: Get to the audition right on time, maybe 90 seconds late depending on subways, humidity, and elevators.

9: Go in, smile, do the thing too quickly, look at my papers too much, and check in for signs of validation from the table folk.

10: Leave. Replay the event. Analyze every comment, question, and yawn for the next three days.

11: Check my phone every seven minutes to see if I missed a call from a (212).

12: The phone rings! It’s another audition. Repeat.

You need a breath? I do.

That’s better.

Last week, I chatted with a grad student who came to Boston from NYC; he was still adjusting to the SLOWER pace in Boston. I said I felt like New York was a neurosis nursery.

Not only were your hangups welcomed, but you could find two or three folks to sit with you at the Renaissance Diner and jib jab about commitment ambivalence for several hours.

The other morning on the train, I saw pieces of the afore-described brain torture show up.

I was batting around a couple book ideas. As I brainstormed, I wrote, “I’m afraid I’ll spin away at these ideas and then have nothing to SHOW for my work.”

Then I wrote down, “Show who?”

Well, I did write “whom,” but I didn’t wanna look like a complete grammar tool.

Isn’t that funny? That expression? “Nothing to show for all my hard work.”

Seriously, to whoM are we showing these outcomes?

The 12 steps of tryout crazy you read above — all of those brain-guish exercises rely on imagining that someone’s looking at you.

Many of us walk around with an imaginary committee opining on our choices, thoughts, and dreams.

Comprised of a junior high bully, the teacher who said the thing that time, a nemesis, and chaired by a composite Disney villain step-parent, this imaginary crew influences our day to day.

You get so used to them that you act (or don’t) anticipating their reactions.

It’s exhausting.

May I offer a suggestion?

Thank them.

Why did you make up this crew in the first place?

They probably started as your safety commission–a benevolent team that helped you navigate your early years: this big person likes it when you smile; this big person prefers you stay quiet; whatever you do, don’t tell this big person how you really feel about body piercings.

We become big people with our little people still running the back-end operations.

So, that’s why we say thank you.

This committee’s been seated to help us steer clear of all manner of life-threatening banishment.

Their continued influence does get us all wiggle waggle when our bodies look like adults, though, doesn’t it?

Rather than our vision resting calmly inside us looking out to the world, we jerk the cables around and lock in to selfie stick mode. Then we’re selfie stuck.

So here’s some help —

?? Breathe. Through your nose. Small inhale, long exhale. About a minute.

? Say, “Thank you, committee-that-I-made-up-to-keep-me-safe.”

? Face the lens outward.

Repeat as needed.

Then you’ll open-hearted see the outside while you have grace for your inside.

You’ll say things like, “Self, you get to try things out; Self, go ahead feel your feels; Self, it’s cool how you got to show up on the planet with all these other billions of selves.”

It’s a sweet place to be, I’ve found.

Hey, by the way, how’s your singing coming along? Are you enjoying it?

How’re your auditions in this post apocalypse self-tape landscape? (apocalypse in Greek actually means uncovering, and wow have things been uncovered, right?)

If you’ve hit snags, I can help you.

Email me and let me know what’s going on. Let’s talk.

If you’re in NYC or LA and want to meet with a real live human, I can recommend folks.

Or we can always hop on the Zoom and hash it out. Write me and ask me. Hit that reply button. I’m here for you.

Above all, remember that there’s only one you, and folks do indeed need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

dan

ps Happened upon this Tim Minchin feature on YouTube (You may know him as the composer for MATILDA). He talks about the fame experience as well as the camera-turned-toward-you phenomenon. Interesting journey.

pps Have you ever read the Dr. Bronner’s soap bottle? I did yesterday, and one of the things encapsulates this dual-vision thing I’m talking about: “If I’m not for me, who am I? Nobody. Yet, if I’m only for me, what am I? Nothing. If not now, when?” He uses a lot more exclamation marks, though.

ppps And remember if you’re struggling with roadblocks vocal, creative, or career path, email me. Your singing can be free, your creativity flowy, and your work satisfying and clear. Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you.

You smell that? — Places change, aromas too. Make-believe’ll help you sing like true new you.

September 19, 2022 / dancallaway

We got back from an epic NYC sojourn. We’re still in recovery.

Melissa and I went to a memorial service for a NYC mentor of mine.

We shared in a celebration for my college voice teacher and founder of Elon’s musical theatre program, Cathy McNeela. (Daniel Watts and I shared a sung-and-tapped “Anyone Can Whistle.”)

And we pulled off a first reading of the musical I wrote at SongSpace.

The boys adventured in Brooklyn. (Thanks to former student and perpetual badass Parker Jennings.)

I rolled my ankle and executed a full wipe-out schlepping luggage and garbage down the brownstone stairs where we stayed.

We pretended to be the Statue of Liberty from Red Hook.

We languished in BQE gridlock and dodged the Five Boroughs’ finest drivers while one child had to poop, a dashboard warning light came on, and our AC went all funky.

We made it to a Bronx McDonalds. Phew.

Adrenaline wore off, and my ankle swelled, so Melissa took over the driving in Connecticut.

The other kid had to poop.

I got COVID.

We made it.

Now that you’re caught up, I want to talk to you about smells.

What does your nose expect when you walk in your favorite bookstore?

Your favorite coffee shop?

You got a perfume you’re okay if you never whiff again?

Mowed grass–where does that send you? Wood smoke? Gasoline?

My nose got a little angry at NYC this last go-round.

You see, I got sense memory expectations in the City.

If it’s warm, bring on the Subway grease, sewer wafts, uncollected garbage, sidewalk piss. Fine. I’m ready.

What I can’t adjust my sniffer to, though, is the skunky weed punching every midtown block.

I mean, I work at Berklee, so I can’t walk to the Dunkies on Mass Ave without three involuntary contact highs. Y’all do y’all, seriously.

But, there was something about the doob fumes in NYC that disoriented my olfactory GPS.

I’d already waved bye bye to the extinct shops form my old hood. The cheese store that sold the best coffee beans where the owner’s cat sat in the window is a trendy tapas bar, and the fluff and fold where the owner and I talked about singing is a Japanese fast food spot.

But that thing about smells —

the odor of a school cafeteria can whiz you back to laughs or abject junior high terror; library stacks can make you cozy or constrained.

Notice when you imagine a camp fire — where does that smell memory go in your body? How about sour milk?

What if you were to hum while imagining those smells?

Different kinds of sounds, right?

Lately, I’ve been playing with the ways your body’s built-in smarts affect the sounds you make.

Your body is brilliant.

When you add up who you are, what you believe, and what you’re saying, you have a world and its sound ready to go.

Working this way, students’ faces look like, “Wait, how’d that happen? How’d that sound come out?”

It’s magical. Vocal technique can’t live if there’s no story. The story makes your sounds breathe.

So, as you’re working, take a sec to ask yourself — Who am I? What’s happening? What am I saying?

A lil experiment for you:? Hum a 5-note scale (sol fa mi re do) while chewing.
? Pretend it’s something delicious — pie and ice cream.
? Then pretend it’s something healthy yet not so tasty — raw kale.
? Then pretend it’s something you don’t enjoy that you’re eating to be polite.

Did your sound change?

Three different stories change your body, therefore, your sound.

One other way to think about it–

? You’re Adele asking your ex, “Why don’t you remembeeeer the reason you loved me beeefore?”
? You’re Billy Crystal telling your kid, “Great job!”
? You’re Moira Rose warning someone, “Your wig! It’s coming loose!”
❤️‍? You’re Bruce Springsteen saying, “Can’t start a fire without a spark.”

1️⃣ Identity. 2️⃣ What’s happening. 3️⃣ Need to tell somebody.

Who you are, what’s going on, and you gotta say something — you know these things? Then, your singular and unique body-brain can do most of the work on its own.

So, I’ll commit to you — the next time I’m working my way down 8th Avenue through a bracing cloud of second hand skunk, I’ll try this out.

I’ll be Joe Pesci doing his best Robert DeNiro and shout to the haze, “Hey I’m breathin’ here! What’s a guy gotta do to get a good whiff of a burned soft pretzel?”

You can practice your voices, too.

If you’re in NYC, the good news is you can be as loud as you want, and no one will likely hear or care.

When I fell off those brownstone stairs, cans clattered, my suitcase handle smacked the pavement, and I moaned like a wounded moose. The woman waiting for her Uber 10 feet away didn’t even turn around. See? The world’s your playground.

In the meantime, remember! There’s only one you, and folks DO need to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

ps It’s so good to email you again. I missed you.

pps I have to report, though, that I witnessed many instances of folks looking out for each other in NYC — people giving up their subway seats, helping carry strollers on stairs, and some terrific exchanges among Crown Heights residents in the discount store — checking on family and such. We’re all doing our best.

⭐️ppps If you’re in or near NYC, I’m starting a monthly thing.⭐️

It’ll be

? 1 3-hour class of 7 folks. Story and vocal how-to with an MD and me in one class learning from and supporting each other.
? 2 group Zoom check-ins, work on your material, encouragement and love.
? And me on-call for 20-minute trouble shooting to help you with your priority vocal needs.

I wanna provide you something that’ll
? join your story muscles with your technique neurons,
? give you a chance to absorb and learn from your cohort and build a support crew
and
✅ prioritize and target what you need vocally

all for less than what you’d invest for 2 lessons with a good voice teacher in the City. ($235/month)

You wanna join me? Email me, and I’ll make sure you know when we start, and you can hear me bitch about weed smoke like an old man in person. ?

Join the Calla-Crew! Get special content, emails, and tools I don't share anywhere else. (+ the free video series.)