Nothing Compares 2 U
I connect with musicians on a very personal, slightly bizarre level. I’m not in the “obsessive, stalking fan” category, but I absolutely credit certain musicians with defining parts of myself, changing my perspective and, in a few select cases, saving my life. And when I say these things, I wholeheartedly mean them — not metaphorically.
This year, I’ve had to say goodbye to two singers who gave me courage to shamelessly be myself. My tiny reminder to never push aside who I want to be is, and always will be, their music.
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with music. It’s always been like a limb or a second soul to my body. Very early on, I wanted to be a singer, but I never felt as though I had a good voice. That, of course, didn’t stop me from singing everywhere and anywhere I went.
Then and still now, music possessed me like a holy ghost. It reverberated in my bones, sparked out of my fingertips and instantly turned me into a better, more open version of myself. It’s why I still get “concert highs” and subsequent lows after attending or performing at a show.
The first instrument I learned was saxophone, after being inspired by Sonny Rollins’ “St. Thomas.” I then taught myself piano and fiddled around with guitar and percussion for a little bit. When I looked for a college, I wanted a place I could continue to play music and connect with those who loved it, without necessarily having to study it.
I found a small liberal arts university that offered me that opportunity. I joined a few ensembles and immersed myself in music as much as I could, while instead studying political science. Soon, the vast majority of my friends were music majors who I’d met through various groups. Even though they could play their instruments a thousand times better than I could — for obvious reasons — I still played and still came to life the second a saxophone was placed in my hands.
At one point, though, I made a few not-friends. I don’t want to say “enemies” because they weren’t. But they were students who didn’t seem to think a non-music major belonged in the music building or in so many ensembles. I heard a lot of terrible things about me — things I knew weren’t true but that cut deeply. I felt like I didn’t belong, and it was awful. Because music was the only thing that made me feel like I belonged.
These people used to roll their eyes or refuse to clap when I soloed in jazz, not because I was bad. I was actually pretty good for never having private lessons or formal training outside of school band. But simply because I was there. Because I let music fill me in a way that many music majors couldn’t even be filled. Because I chose to leave music in a sacred space, instead of mixing it with a career I’d have someday. Because I wasn’t them.
I remember the day I really found out how many people didn’t like me. I’d signed up to audition as a vocalist for our jazz lab. I never went to the audition. I was too ashamed, too embarrassed to be exposed as the musician I wasn’t — frightened and horrified that I’d learn I truly was unable to sing.
Today, I’m shocked I let people get to me like that, but they did. I let acquaintances who barely knew me dictate what I did and didn’t do. It’s one of the things I regret most about college. I never sang in a group.
I graduated college and immediately felt a void where countless ensembles and bands had been. I moved to a new state where I knew close to no one, and I didn’t have any place where I could share music with other people.
For a few months, I spent a lot of time listening to Bowie and Prince, which quickly morphed from tiny reminders to not-so tiny ones. I’d always liked them, even as a little girl, because they never seemed to be scared or ashamed. Even when Prince was adorned in glitter or Bowie was dressed “like a woman,” they were who they wanted to be and couldn’t give two shits if people disliked it.
Prince’s lyric “I am something you will never understand” always sounded so unapologetic to me, like saying, “You don’t get this. You never will. But I’m going to be me, and you’re going to be you.” It’s something I felt for years and something I wanted to live, but could never articulate.
All of Bowie’s music resonated with a sense of misunderstanding and, at times, loneliness, but with a feeling of triumph and self-assuredness that I deeply wanted. I loved the line in the first song of his that connected with me that said, “We live for just these twenty years. Do we have to die for the fifty more?" — urging me to live for myself and nothing else, now and not later.
I took in a lot of other “tiny reminder” music during that time that challenged me to disrupt my life, to put myself out there and to take chances on things that were scary. I finally got to a point where I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep listening to Prince and Bowie sing while I just sat there and did nothing about it. I had to make my own voice heard. I had to answer their challenges. I had to stop hiding and pushing aside what I wanted to be.
One day on Craigslist, I saw a listing from two guys about my age, looking for a singer. Their ad — which I can’t recall specifically, but it was hilarious — made me laugh so hard that I emailed them, saying, “I can’t sing worth shit, but I wanted to tell you guys that you’re awesome.” They offered me a chance to come by and sing anyway. Shocking to me, I took it.
To make a long story short, that whole time, for 21+ years, I’d been a “kick-ass singer,” as they put it, and never known it. I’m now the lead singer in our band.
For more than two decades, I’d let others put restrictions and limitations on me. I’d let them define something that I hadn’t even had the courage to define for myself. I’d let others silence me before I could open my mouth to sing, and I did it all because I was scared.
Maybe scared that people would see me as I really was — vulnerable and naked. They’d see the emotions pour out of me as I sang, my voice shaky with the fatigue of knowing how much a song connects with my soul. Or they’d hear my voice break as I hit a challenging note or tested the limits of my range. They’d see me without the mask of perfection and ambivalence that I put on for most people. They’d see me.
In January, I lost Bowie. I woke up to the news and texted my husband:
I cried for days. I spun his records endlessly — the ones that reminded me I wasn’t alone. I had watched Labyrinth a week prior and then watched it again. I felt hollow, and I couldn’t explain why. I’d never even seen Bowie in concert, let alone met him. How could I grieve so profoundly?
But Bowie saw me when no one else did. He saw the beauty and the spirit inside of me. Through his music, he told me to put on my red shoes and be who I felt so compelled to be.
I honored him that weekend by singing in a tribute show — the first time I’d performed live in years. After the show, strangers came up to hug me and tell me how incredible I was singing lead on “Under Pressure.” A local newspaper covered it. My YouTube video circulated the city.
Now that I’ve lost Prince, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. So far, I bought an air plant terrarium recently and decided to name it “Prince.” (I grieve in weird ways.) But whatever I end up doing, I’ll honor him similarly — in a way that’s shameless, unapologetic and profoundly myself.
I’ve always been a person who needs reassurance and confirmation, even if I deny it. So it feels good to receive praise for things like my singing. But every day, I try to remind myself with music like this that I don’t need it and I don’t want it.
Instead, I want to be undefined. I want to be vulnerable. I want to throw on a loud outfit that I think I look great in and draw attention to myself. I want to growl into a microphone and fall to my knees when I shriek a high note. I want to electrify, to come alive, to exist.
Most of all, I want to be incomparable — like Prince.
