A Man Who Can't Sing

By Laura Toffenetti

I married a man who can't sing.

It came as a surprise.

As I was growing up my family spent long drives and power outages singing. We were like the Von Trapp family of the Midwest. So when I discovered I had a husband who couldn't sing I was taken aback. Please don't think me foolish in expecting him to have a Paul Robson talent. He possesses a beautiful speaking voice, rich, deep and powerful. I'd heard rumors of people who couldn't sing but surely my husband....

My concept of our harmonious marriage was shattered on a drive from LA to San Francisco. When he turned a classic rock station and started to sing I discovered that along with his rich, deep, powerful voice came another unfortunate quality: lack of pitch. He has a true range of about three notes and the rest are up for grabs.

His first few bars of enthusiastic butchering left me stunned. He flashed me a smile and continued crooning a blood bath of mutilated notes.

Horrified and desperate, I opened the window in an attempt to drown him out but as it was raining I only added moisture to my agony. Marguaritaville stands out as a particularly painful experience. None of the notes in that song fell within this three note range. "Wasting away" does not come close to what I was experiencing.

I tried joining in but found his ability to be off key was stronger than mine to be on. I have a robust voice but my fear of following him down the off key trail disheartened me. I had always thought singing was a way of brightening the world. This nuclear winter of sound was criminal. Flowers were shriveling. Birds were cringing. I fell mute.

Barely hanging on to my sanity I tried a new tactic. "How about a little Paul Harvey?" My husband is addicted to talk radio. On this day his joy of singing overcame his joy of punditry. He sang on.

"How about stopping for a fresh cup of coffee?" He warbled between swallows.

"I have to pee." So did he. The respite was short. The adjoining bathrooms had great acoustics.

Thanks goodness he wasn't trying to make a living as a crooner. What he did to New York, New York would have made us homeless.

I learned to accept the unacceptable. Then we had a son who took after his father...