Voice of an Angel - Prologue

PROLOGUE

 When Jack Garrett first heard the otherworldly voice, his head snapped up and he quickly surveyed the street around him.  The song, or rather ‘the voice,’ was hypnotizing, powerful, and crystal clear.  He listened, recognizing the song as Memories, made famous by Barbra Streisand.  He was pretty sure that it wasn’t a recording because he couldn’t hear any accompanying instruments.  His eyes swept over the multi floored apartment buildings, looking for a woman singing; but, he couldn’t see anyone. 

He stood there on the street, with his hands in the pockets of his black cashmere jacket, as he scanned the apartment buildings again, floor by floor, balcony by balcony, looking for any kind of female form. 

“Damn!” he swore, causing one or two pedestrians to look at him disapprovingly.   “Damn, damn, damn!”

How was he going to find this singer?  She could be in any of the numerous apartment buildings on this busy street in Greenwich Village.  If only she would show herself.

When the last notes of her song had faded away, he almost panicked.  His heart was thumping like a drum until the incredible voice started again, this time with Phantom of the Opera.  Her voiced calmed the beating of his heart and he began to relax again. He wondered if she had the skill to hit the high note that challenged so many singers.  He waited in anticipation; but, he wasn’t surprised when she nailed it, effortlessly, just like a professional.

“Where are you girl?” he whispered out loud. “Who are you?  Show yourself.”

He walked up and down the intersection, occasionally stopping to listen more closely, trying to determine where the voice was coming from. 

When his rumbling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, he ordered a hamburger from street vendor and sat outside on a bench.  In the evening air the angelic voice floated down to him; warming his heart and sending cold chills up his spine. 

He closed his eyes and shook his head.  Such a voice! Such a talent!  And he didn’t have a clue where to look for it.

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The Voice

Those who have been watching “The Voice” know that there were only two serious contestants this year: Amanda Brown and Trevin Hunte.

          

When Amanda was votes off, the show lost some of its lustre, when Trevin was voted off this week, the show all but died.

It comes as no surprise of course … the really talented never make it to the finish line.  Whether it’s “The Voice” – “American Idol” or “X Factor”, the really good singers are voted off and the rubbish gets to stay.

Let’s have a look at the finalists of “The Voice”:

There’s Nicolas David, a nice enough guy, but not star material.  With his long hair, long beard and weird sense of fashion, he’s a child of the 60s and it shows.

Terry McDermot isn’t bad.  He’s got a good voice and nice stage presence, but he’s ordinary.  Guys like Terry are thirteen in a dozen.

Finally there Cassadee Pope.  When I first saw this girl on stage, I found her quite bothersome.  There was something about her that was both familiar and off-putting.  It didn’t take long for me to figure it out … she was an Avril Lavigne wannabee.  The way she sang, the way she moved, even the way she tossed her hair, it’s was clear she had been studying Avril Levine and copied everything she did.

       

So who is going to win “The Voice”?  My guess is, Cassadee Pope.  Nicolas David is too old and Terry McDermot is too ordinary, that leaves only Cassadee as a real chancer.  I guess copying a star pays off.

I wonder what the judges think of America voting for their favorites.  I imagine they must be shaking their head in wonder and thinking … “What are you all doing!”

As I said, Amanda Brown and Trevin Hunte were the only really good singers.  Good being the obvious understatement, they were excellent, captivating, mesmerizing.  Watching them and hearing them sing was sheer joy. 

Then again, you don’t have to win to become famous.  Look at those who were voted off “American Idol”.

Jennifer Hudson went on to become a successful singer and actress with an Oscar to her name.

Chris Daughtry made his mark on the music industry.

Adam Lambert made a splash and seems to be going strong.

As for X-Factor … who can forget Susan Boyle?  She didn’t win, but look at her now, touring the world.

As for the winners of X-Factor, American Idol and The Voice, where are they now?  Has anyone seen or heard of them.

Do I have a mental problem?

I received a comment today, asking if I had a mental problem.  This person was doing research for an essay and had stumbled across my blog.

I briefly considered defending my point of view, but then I thought ... neih, it’s not worth it.  If I say something, he/she is going to say something back, and then I’ll say something back and before you know it a simple comment has turned into a heated argument.  So, I left it alone and moved on.

The comment got me thinking though ... do I have a mental problem?  If I do, there’s a perfectly good explanation for it.

There was a time that I occupied myself with cleaning, cooking and gardening.  In my spare time I wrote a weekly letter home, did some knitting, crocheting, embroidery and beading.

The house was always spotless, something was simmering on the stove and my family and I had plenty of sweaters, scarfs and hats.  Even in the bathroom there was evidence of my creativity ... the spare toilet roll was kitted out in an original jacket.

With the arrival of the computer – and especially the Internet – everything changed.  Suddenly there was a fine layer of dust on the furniture and the windows had lost a bit of their sparkle.  Occasionally we would have take-out and bought sweaters replaced hand knitted ones.

I don’t even know how or when it happened, but suddenly I spend my days writing.  If I don’t write articles, I research articles.  If I don’t surf from website to website, I write emails or answer emails.  In between, I post this, that and the other on Facebook and leave comments on other people’s posts.  Via Facebook I visit blogs and leave comments there too.  Write, write, write, that’s all I do.

Okay, I play a fair amount of games on Facebook too, but that’s beside the point.

When I finally retire and go to bed, I have to share my space with two or three cats.  They curl up or stretch out and I have to adjust my sleeping position accordingly. 

It wouldn’t be so bad if they were quiet sleepers, but they’re not.  Mickey snores, Charlotte sighs and Gabriel makes funny little meow noises. 

In addition, Mickey has a tendency of kicking me when I don’t give him room to stretch, Gabriel swats his fury tail in my face, while Charlotte walks all over me.  She tramples over my chest, pushes her cold wet nose in my ear and says “krrrrrr, krrrrr, krrrrr!”  You try sleeping with that lot.

(Meantime, Dieter sleep with Chanel, a perfectly good and quite kitty cat ... even she too has a tendency to snore.)

Finally we all go to sleep, but only until dawn.  As soon as the sun rises Gabriel awakens and his theory is ... if I’m awake, so should everybody else.  So, he starts meowing.  Not softly mind you, but loud and insistent, and increasing in volume.  In fact, his meowing is like singing an aria from Aida.  Verdi would be proud of him.

After they had their breakfast, the kitty cats go back to sleep and so do I.  Not for long though, their internal clock is finely tuned and sooner or later they decide that it’s time to get up.  So I get up.

If you think I can shower and brush my teeth in peace and quiet, think again.  It doesn’t take long before there’s scratching on the door.  I open the door and Mickey walks in.  He takes a look around and wants to go out.  I open door.  He hears the water being turned on and he wants to come back in.  I open the door.  The bathroom is too hot for him and he wants to go back out.  I open the door.

There’s more scratching at the door.  I open the door.  Charlotte walks in.  She wants a drink at the sink.  She too decides that the bathroom is too hot and wants to go out.  I open the door.  Jeez Louise, these cats need a concierge.

For the remainder of the day I have peace and quiet.  The evening though brings a flurry of activity.  While I try to concentrate on writing, the cats play games.  Games that increase in roughness as time goes by.  Occasionally I have to yell “Guys!  Calm down!”

For a few minutes they behave themselves until the madness starts all over again.  They’re favorite game being racing, NASCAR style.  They sprint from room to room, jump on chairs, fly over tables, only to go sprinting from room to room again. 

I yell again for them to calm down when there’s a loud crash ... that was my favorite lamp.  (I can’t tell you how many pieces have bitten the dust at the hands/paws of my fury kids.

Writing and cats ... not a good combination.  Is it any wonder that I have a mental problem?