“Singing is the true mother tongue of all human beings, for it is the most natural and simplest way in which we are there undividedly and can open up our hearts – together with all our experiences, our emotions, our hopes.”

Lord Yehudi Menuhin, Il Canot del Mondo, Düsseldorf, Germany

“Singing has always been an enlivening communal activity which has brought people together in grief and in joy, in sorrow and in jubilation. At the wedding feast and in the funeral procession, in the chapels, among marching soldiers and protesting prisoners, among the faithful and among those who despair–singing has, since the earliest times, released people from isolation and enabled those from all quarters of the globe to make themselves known to God and to the world. Yet, in the modern Western world, the act of singing has been sequestered by the fortunate elite who take lessons, learn scales and convince us that singing is a specialized art performed by the anointed. In fact, singing is a social and spiritual communion in which every man and woman, boy and girl has the right to take part.”

Shir (not her real name) said that she could relate to that because when she gets caught up in pleasing the audience, she loses focus — and that it detracts from her performance.

There’s something interesting about the idea that in order to be true to your own self-expression, you can’t be a prisoner to “crowd-pleasing” — to putting on a show.  But the reality is, if you want to survive in this industry, you probably have to give the audience what they want — which might not necessarily be what you’d choose to play, if you didn’t have to make a living!

I was fascinated by our talk, because I really enjoy performances where I sense the artist is connecting with the audience and we’re connecting with him or her. There’s a two-way flow of energy that is tangible. I’ve also been at a performance where the artist wasn’t there to share, he was there to show off his musical mastery. It left me feeling empty.

What about give and take? If you can’t bring your heart, are you really there?

“Take yourself back to those first few weeks in her womb . . . Listen closely . . . Hear the “lub-dub—lub-dub—lub-dub”. . . . It’s your mother’s heartbeat, massaging what is to become you with its consistency and power, accompanied by the steady undulation of her breathing. “

He goes on to say that “throughout our lives we continue to come in contact with innumerable internal and external rhythms. We are so intimately familiar with these physical sensations created by rhythm that whenever we’re exposed to any kind of percussion, these earliest, primal sensations are once again activated, particularly to the degree that our bodies are open to these sensations. ”

He explains that when we’re exposed to any rhythmic music or percussion, what typically happens—even if only temporarily—is that parts of the body that have remained frozen or dormant and whose life force has become greatly diminished are stirred once again, filling up with renewed vitality.

Which is why you should consider taking up drumming in a group. As Farmer so rightly says, “…when you’re in the midst of good percussion, who can resist moving at least some part of their body, even if it’s only tapping your finger or your toes?”

Dr Farmer’s article goes on to discuss the healing power of drumming in great detail, but since he hasn’t responded to my request to republish it, I can’t print any more of what he said in my blog. 

The next time you’re listening to music, try drumming on the table or your own body, without judging it. How does it feel? What does it do your body? Does your mind switch off and your instinct take over? There’s something about drumming that can lift you out of your present reality to a place where you are tuning into the most primal part of yourself, a reawakening of who you were before you burst out into the world and took your first breath.

Learn more about the healing power of the drum and benefits of drumming.

“In my singing lessons, my awesome coach, Guy (who’ll be sharing his teachings with you on my website soon) says, “Be ruthless! Be fierce! Grimace, frown, don’t be sweet, double over and growl, give me some gravel! By freeing yourself, you free your audience.”

We adore musicians and actors because they express so outrageously. We admire those who aren’t shackled by convention, who are fiercely, uncompromisingly authentic, speak their minds and hearts, and are fearless to say unpopular things.”

What a tragedy! What means more to a child than the comforting sounds of their mother or father humming or singing to them? They are soothed by the sound, the vibration, and the love that flows through every note. They don’t care about perfect pitch or performance. They don’t mind if you fluff the words or wander off-key. All they know is what they feel — a profound sense of peaceful connection.

With all this emphasis on excellence and artistry, we’re beginning to forget that the healing power of music transcends the “norms” we’ve set up for ourselves; the definitions of what is “good” and “bad.” When a parent sings to a child, or when they sing together, it doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s the togetherness that creates the harmony.

Janis Ian’s poignant song about her late mother, I Hear You Sing Again, says it all:

“If I could only hear my mother sing again,
If I could close my eyes and hear your voice as then,
All the friends and family would sing along with me,
And set your spirit free.

In my heart I hear you sing again,
Every note as natural as then.
And when I sing those songs for family and friends,
In my heart I hear you sing again…

It’s a long, long road I’ve come,
Since my mother’s songs were heard.
But the child I can’t outrun,
Still hangs on every word.”

It brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. Sing to your children. It doesn’t have to be great, it just has to come from the heart.

“Humming not only lifts your spirits, it clears your head. According to a study conducted by Swedish researcher, and published in the American Journal of Respiratory and Critical Care Medicine, humming may actually help keep your sinuses clear and healthy.”

Hum it loud and hum it strong. It might just help your sinuses along.

We are seated in a beautiful, peaceful room overlooking untamed countryside, attending a voice workshop with Fred Johnson, also known as Frejon. He sits quietly, as people meander in and sit down expectantly. The room fills. We are ready.

Frejon’s voice is soothing, rhythmic, and poetic as he talks to us about the first song we ever sang — the first breath we took as we burst into the world. He talks about our connection to our breath, our connection to life. Just minutes before, we were breathing. Then, we started to breathe — actively, consciously, deliberately. Breathe in, breathe out. There’s music in that too, we discover.

He has brought some fascinating handmade instruments from Africa. One is crafted out of wood and covered in furry animal skin. The other is reminiscent of a bow and arrow — a piece of wood and a string — which he plays using a wooden stick. “Simplicity,” he says, with a broad smile, coaxing music out of this unlikely instrument. He improvises, making up a song on the spur of the moment.

“What’s your name?” Frejon asks. “Liane,” I answer. “Liane, Liane,” he starts to sing. My name sounds pleasing to me; it falls fluidly off his lips as he continues to play with my name, singing a song to me — the song that is my name. “What’s your name,” he asks the woman sitting next to him. “Orit.” “Liane, meet Orit,” and he binds us together in a unique interaction — eye to eye, heart to heart.

Next he asks the man sitting next to me his name. “Natanel,” he answers, “Nathaniel in English.” Frejon starts to sing a song telling him that when he awakes and when he goes to sleep, he should remember he is a blessing to the world. He asks us to join in. We do, singing his name as it “feels” to us. The room swells as we lovingly sing his name. His face is alight and when we finish, he is clearly moved. Then, he tells Frejon the meaning of his name:  God’s gift (Given by God). 

Now it’s our turn to sing our names aloud. We don’t say anything, but our doubt shows on our faces. Sing our names aloud? What if it sounds silly? What if it doesn’t sound good? What if…? Frejon gets us past our what-ifs and soon we are all deeply involved in the process of singing our names, becoming acquainted with it in the most intimate way. Rolling it around our mouths, lovingly touching it with our tongues, sending it out into the world, tentatively at first and then with greater confidence. “Liane, Liane, Li-aaaaannnne,” I sing, enjoying the feeling of release as I throw the sounds out of my mouth, drawing them deep out of my mouth, from my throat, from the very bowels of my being. I croon. I warble. I take it high, I pull it down low. The treble sounds frivolous, the bass sounds solid. It rumbles pleasantly in my chest. “Li-li-li-li-li-annnnne. Liane. Sounds good to me. Sounds right.

There are about 30 people there, a recipe for cacophony. Yet it isn’t. Some are calling out their names confidently, others singing quietly, as if experimenting with their name, like they are hearing it for the first time. Voices rise and fall, yet together the different combination of vowels and sounds is harmonious, as people acquaint themselves with the beauty of their own name. Some, eyes closed, are almost in a trance. We slowly draw to a conclusion, reluctantly returning to the reality of the room. There is a throbbing silence, one filled with energy. Into that warm, vibrating silence come a woman’s sobs. Her shoulders shake as the tears pour down her face. Frejon rises to give her a comforting embrace. Some of us start humming, as if to support her like we would hum to comfort a crying baby. We do not know what caused that tidal wave of emotion, but clearly, she needed the release. Gradually, she stops. We continue.

He teaches us a song he wrote, called “It’s wonderful.” He sings a line, we sing a line. It’s upbeat, optimistic, and fun. His energy is contagious. We learn the song and choose a percussion instrument from the basket. Everyone is smiling and laughing. It’s time to go home, but we’re on a high, a wave of sound that rises and keeps on going. We’re not ready to stop. It’s wonderful.

To learn more about Frejon, visit www.frejon.org