Austin — Tonight I return home from a workshop with a crack in my voice from one of the day’s more vigorous exercises. I feel grateful for the fissure for it gives me an entry point to my singing and feels just about right with my well worked body.
So I sit down to practice, crack and all. I’m still on a word streak. Tonight they show up more in the form of narrative than word salads.
I feel like I’m drinking some moonshine and telling stories on a worn Southern farm porch, the voice crack shaping whatever persona is showing up, giving me permission to just lean back and croak it out.