Recently, I sang my little heart out in front of an audience of 60 people. A mini Carnegie Hall performance. And, once more, I escaped disaster by the skin of my teeth.

These local talent nights have been going on for a few months now, once a month, with everyone performing 3 songs, although I think 2 songs from any of us is really enough, don’t you? I decided to do Billy Holiday’s “Lover Man”, Streisand’s “My Man” and Joni Mitchell’s “Last Time I Saw Richard”. So far so good. I know these songs like the back of my hand. I learned them at 16 and it’s just like riding a bike. I decided to sing them a cappella, that being the way I’ve always done them, in the shower, doing the dishes, etc. What could go wrong?

I miscalculated the degree to which I would feel stage fright. It makes it different,.. the people being out there,… listening… like. At the last minute before stepping out the door, I tuck a thermos filled with white wine into my coat pocket, just to take the edge off trembling nerves. There will be no alcohol at the event. The family selects a table.

My beaming mother sits across from me, barely restraining herself from launching into “Everything’s comin’ up roses!” With other people I could pretend I was having a slurp of coffee from my thermos and brazen it out. But not with mom. I excuse myself, go to the washroom, lock myself in a stall, open the flask and proceed to knock back the most acidic, medicinal wine I have ever drank in my life. There is a little bit left in the bottom. I flush the toilet and rejoin the group at the table. I am relaxed.

The final chords of a song finish in a flourish and then I’m called up by Randy. Glowing words of introduction “…give a hand for long-time Denman resident, Jane Masutani”, and I smoothly glide to the stage and come to a halt in front of the mike. An expectant hush falls over the crowd. It occurs to me that I might knock over the mike stand and I make a note to myself not to do that. I am having trouble remembering the title of my first number. This is a pressing issue. Fortunately, due to my previous nerves, on a small piece of paper I had written down the song titles. I smile warmly at my sister. “Deb, can you see on that piece of paper there, the title of the first song?” But the words “Lover Man” don’t seem to ring much of a bell with me. They are ciphers. As luck would also have it, I had the presence of mind to also write down the first words to “Lover Man.”
“What are the few words written underneath that, Deb, please?”
“I don’t know why.”
“Thanks, Deb.” “Uh,…I don’t know why,” I intone tunelessly at the audience. I, uh, don’t seem to remember the melody. I hear a loud groan from somewhere at the back of the room. OH MY GOD This whole thing is going into the TOILET The thought that I’m risking real humiliation here galvanizes me to dredge up, from the basement parking depths of my long term memory vaults, the stylized, lovely voice of Billie Holiday singing “I don’t know why, but I’m feeling so sad. I long to try something I’ve never had…”

It takes every wattage of brain power to stay on track and keep hearing Holiday’s voice in my head. I sing the song and people clap. I’ve pulled it off. What a triumph of the will, if nothing else! This is like singing through molasses. Thinking through the stuff.

I decide to launch into a story about the comic writer David Sedaris going to take guitar lessons when he was 15, tossing aside his guitar and telling his instructor, “This is what I really want to do!” and launching into a pitch-perfect rendition of Holiday’s “Lover Man.” I talk about other things too.

Then it occurs to me I should, perhaps, be singing. I launch softly into Streisand’s “My Man”. It takes all my concentration just to stay on key.

The crowd is so warm, and I have one more song. “Should I do it?” I ask the crowd. Wallowing in their warm embrace and smiling and giggling like a lunatic I turn my gaze towards my sister. She is making a severe chopping motion with her hand, saying what looks like “no” and looking pretty serious.

“Alright, then,” I say and launch into a too high rendition of Mitchell’s “The Last Time I Saw Richard.” Can you imagine!! I could have caused a nosebleed. Mine or the audience’s. Then I talked some more. The talking certainly took a lot less energy than the singing. I take my seat to the sound of more than one hand clapping, thank god.

“This thermos fell out of your pocket. I was trying to rearrange your coat on the seat,” says my mom. And I’m 16 again. The whole night I’ve been 16. It’s been great but, memo to self: One drink is probably enough to take the edge off nerves.

The next day, I bump into a member of last night’s audience in the general store. “You’re a great talker!” he says.
“Thanks.”