Secretly, I have always wanted to be a rock star. I think I would be rather good at it, because, frankly, I think feeling adored and validated by thousands of screaming fans would come rather naturally to me. (It’s a gift.) I also have plenty of jeans and ratty shirts. (Another gift. It’s called "laziness.") There is really only one, bona fide snag in my plan, and that is my complete and total lack of any musical ability.
Except when I’m sick. Anytime my health suffers, I am bequeathed with a low, sassy, baritone voice. I love it. The singing I usually reserve for the shower, the car, and one special friend, to whom I sing to whenever I leave a voice mail on her cell, suddenly becomes public. I belt it out. I let it fly. I’m loud and proud, sister!
I’ve always fantasized that, if I were to take advantage of this voice and become a part-time rock star, my producer/tour manager would always make the most of my “sick time.” As soon as he got word of my ill health, he would be on the phone, either setting up recording time for a new album, or booking some venues for a short tour. “No! We can’t wait!” Bernie would yell. “We’ve got to get this man into the studio immediately! We’ve only got a limited time before these gold pipes fade, baby!” (Also my producer/tour manager is Bernie.)
Ticket prices for the tour would be astronomical, of course, because it is such a limited engagement. Honestly, even if my loose, party lifestyle prolonged my “sick voice” (and by “party lifestyle” I mean “eating ice cream after midnight”), the most I would get is a week and half. Really. It’s not much.
Perhaps to avoid having to schedule a recording studio, I could just have my friend take my voice mail singings and record them on to a CD. Now THERE’S an idea. Voice Mail Tunes, Volume 1: The Ken Craig Collection.