From Songman to Featherburn

In our performance of War Horse, my cast-mates' voices were expected to be rough and harsh from screaming over the sounds of war. My role of Songman, however, required the voice of an angelic Irish tenor. I had no concept of what was required to manage my voice as a professional vocal performer. Four weeks of moderate rehearsal in New York was quite manageable. But once we were on the road and I was singing eight shows each week, things changed.

The voice is a sensitive instrument: one made of flesh, subject to wear and tear, dependent upon the same maintenance required of any instrument performing at the professional level, not unlike an athlete’s body. Ignorant, I proceeded to one post-show party after another. And why not? The play was meaningful, well-written, well-produced, and performed to standing ovations, with regular press, jet planes, autographs, and hefty paychecks.

With neither the experience to know what was happening, nor the technique with which to compensate for the stress, my voice began to break. The songs were full of heart, truth, and wisdom that represented a generation of people calling from beyond the grave for their stories to be told. And at the most inopportune times, my voice would crack like a boy in puberty. In front of thousands. Awful.

They let it slide for a while. But soon I began to feel the silence of my cast-mates, their passing gazes growing less fond and less friendly. Eventually, I was called by company management to “discuss my work.” They directed me to meet with a vocal coach and come up with a plan of action for remedy.

She showed me how to warm up before performances, recommended I read Everyday Voice Care – The Lifestyle Guide for Singers and Talkers by Joanna Cazden. I learned how necessary it was for a singer to hydrate and rest adequately, to refrain from shouting over noisy bar crowds, and to use vocal techniques on stage that would make my singing more reliable. It was humbling to be the subject of such focused professional scrutiny.

But I made it through. After two years, more than fifty cities, and three countries, the tour closed. With a big, fancy new credit on my resume, professional broadway-level experience under my belt, and some actual savings in the bank, I figured I was ready to storm the New York City audition circuit and help myself to even better roles.

Back to the Music

It took six months and my entire savings from the tour to learn that, perhaps, landing the part in War Horse was akin to hitting the lottery. I got my role, not because I was a well-rounded, well-seasoned, and well-prepared singer-actor-musician, but because the specific skill set required for the role I was cast in is so rarely possessed by other performers.

I persevered for some time in NYC, returning weekly to Lancaster, PA, where Megan had set up shop to help raise our nephew, Cole, with whom I'd forged a close bond. I ran out of money around the time Cole would be starting school. If I took a job in the city, then I wouldn't be seeing much of him. So I chose family.

I thought I would hone my craft in Lancaster and go to New York for auditions. In the meantime, I could put together another band and return to the music that had called to me before War Horse. I took to Craigslist to see what I could find:

I'm a recent Lancaster area transplant looking to build an ensemble and reheat/re-tool originals and covers from a prior project for gigging. Fun, hard-hitting, groove - rock, folk, punk and eastern European influences. Percussion, bass, strings, horns, vocal harmony. Male and female.

Crickets. Not a single bite. I reposted, I tweaked, I reposted. For three months of this, not even a nibble. Finally, fate answered:

Hi Milo, 

I'm a drummer and,.......... You have my interest! Give me a call sometime. .

Tim J. xxx-xxx-xxxx

Tim brought bassist Tom and guitarist James into the mix, and they turned out to be excellent, talented, veteran players. The gypsy punk style wasn’t “in their wheelhouse,” as Tim put it. I had written the songs, but for us to be a band they had to make them their own. It was intimidating at first, three strangers with so much experience and skill who were adapting the music I'd worked long and hard on.

They would take something I’d written with an eastern European “um-pah” sound and bend it into something more akin to the Rolling Stones. They could wail out wonderful harmonies, but worked hard to sing the delicate stereophonic vocal passages I’d written in my bridges.  My fingers fumbled on accordion to the sounds of amplified guitars and crashing cymbals as I learned to incorporate their own influences–Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Doors, Rush, Yes, The Who–into our music.

Compromise was the name of the game. Fortunately, the long, twisted road that led me here beat my ego into submission. I no longer sought the applause of the elementary students, nor longed for the approval of my cast mates, and no longer needed the blessing of a casting director in NYC. I could see past that former version of myself to something bigger.

We make music because we love the sound of it. We love performing it. We love the process of making it. We love building something greater than ourselves. And we want to inspire you toward something greater, too.

Hopefully this will resonate with you the next time you see us live and I grab hold of the mic to remind you:

“We’re Featherburn and we’re here for two reasons. We want to have as much fun and make as much meaning with you tonight as possible. So whatever it means to you, whatever it is you need to do to join forces with us in that as fully as you can - if you want to laugh, laugh.  If you want to shout, shout. If you want to dance, dance – whatever it is, please, dare to do it. We’ve got one, wild, precious life. I say let’s fire it up!”