Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo.
After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker