I lost my voice one Thursday night. It was some years ago at my favorite restaurant. No, it had nothing to do with the food there. In fact, Restaurante Cesaria is an award-winning eatery, a mainstay of the Dorchester neighborhood of Boston for Cape Verdean food. My favorite there is cabritada, a savory goat stew with potatoes. I don’t eat rice much these days, but if you do and you go, you must try arroz di marisco. Imagine sticky, yellow rice infused with an assortment of seafood. It gave me that warm, Ratatouille experience the first time I had it, so compliments to the chef. But it was actually an attempt at karaoke that did my voice in.

At one point, Cesaria hosted karaoke every Thursday night. It was a nice atmosphere, with folks popping in for dinner after work, then lingering for the parade of crooners taking the mic to belt out tunes from their favorite artistes. A group of us from the office had traipsed in that Thursday and settled at tables not far from the karaoke stage. We watched as one-by-one folks went up and had a turn, staring at the monitor for the lyrics, while trying to keep pace with the tune. Some were actually good; they could hold a note. But others were just horrible, sounding like a wounded animal and causing folks in the audience to giggle nervously out of embarrassment for them. So how, or better yet, why had I gone up on stage? And while there, would I too be having a similar effect on the crowd?

I can’t remember which song I had selected, but I had bounced onto the stage, confident. “How hard could it be?” I was thinking. Then the song loaded, lyrics scrolling above on the monitor. I had taken a half-hearted deep breath as the only preparation for the performance. Performance? What performance? It felt like an uphill climb in a low-oxygen environment. And half-way through the song, I realized that there were some in the audience exhibiting that same nervous giggle I had observed earlier. I also noticed that I wasn’t singing. No, instead I was shouting – shouting the lyrics between gasps for air, like a desperate marathoner at Heartbreak Hill. It was horrible and as it dragged on, I had had enough. Finally, the song wound up and I gratefully left the stage.

Nevertheless, my group welcomed me back like a conquering hero. What had they been hearing? And to think that despite the clear hataclaps*, I was brazen enough to request their post-mortem on that dismal attempt. But it was right then that I felt it – a hoarseness in my throat. It reminded me of the feeling from having something to eat or drink that had been made way too sweet. I could only utter no more than a coarse whisper in the fashion of a bad Al Pacino impression. Rather than a conquering hero and instead of killing it at karaoke, I had slain my voice instead. Does this mean that I can’t sing? Nah. More recently, I was back at it, but this time, a different venue: Ginger Bay Cafe in Hollywood, Florida. I heard there are tapes, but until they have been officially reviewed, let’s just say it was a redeeming performance.

* Hataclaps: Jamaican Patois for terrible disaster

next story