I seldom decline invitations when asked to appear in KTV parties. "Okay lang." I often say. "Basta may beer, sasama ako." Consider it a gesture of pakikisama, as organizers love to crowdsource friends. These days, I join the gatherings to cheer my partner as he sings his favorite RnB songs.
I am his number one fan after all.
Despite my seasonal presence in videoke bars, my voice is not really meant for singing. I tend to invent new notes in place of the original ones. I sing off-key and know only few lyrics. I tend to end up a wallflower as I refuse to hold the microphone, unless I am drunk or the song on the menu belongs to the alternative genre. To compensate, I ask to be someone's second voice to break the silence.
I do enjoy, yes. But at the back of my head, I wanted more.
This aversion to the microphone was a sharp contrast to my earlier fondness for singing. I joined the choir in high school and sang as a soprano. In elementary, I had minus-ones at home. You name it, I'd sing it. It doesn't matter if I am out of tune or hum the lyrics. In those days, people simply want you to sing and they appreciate your effort.
But as you grow older, expectations change.
The truth emerged just after I got circumcised. My voice had gone deep - too deep - and the notes, I sang with a child's voice didn't sound pleasing anymore. I left the choir when I didn't make the cut in one of our school's competition. "Sumakay na lang daw kami sa Ferris Wheel at magliwaliw," (the competition was held in Star City) the assistant choirmaster suggested. And when the Favorite Aunt remarked "Bagay kang third voice" after a talent showdown with my cousins, I decided to let go of the microphone for good.
It took years before I was able to recover, and if not for a drinking buddy who had gone to pee and left his slot open, I wouldn't figure that all I'm lacking is the confidence to sing.
Slowly, the voice returned. Shy, repressed, and sometimes even finicky especially in the company of seasoned performers. I only get to sing niche songs, and most of the time I prefer to be the back up. If there was one harsh critic who made me believe that my vocal chords were redeemable. It was my sister. I was purging my emotions one night that I found myself singing to Bamboo's "Masaya." Halfway before the end of the track, she interrupted me by asking, "Kuya, ikaw ba yung kumakanta?"
I had no choice but to admit it.
"May boses ka pala..." I smiled. Good thing, utol was in the other room, or she might have taken back her complement.
From then on, I only sing when someone had already punched on the playlist my favorite track, or when I'm too drunk to think about other people's reaction. However, with limited choices, and vocally-blessed KTV friends, still it feels awkward to take my place.
Meanwhile, the opposite can be said when a clubber used to find me in a prolonged state of euphoria on the dance floor...