Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.
—Oscar Wilde
Present day.
What is that? It’s now, but it’s also a collection of all the past days and experiences. Now, it’s over twelve years since Ronald’s passing. And he’s still in my thoughts. When I sing. When I do my laundry. When I talk with Mom. Present day. And I’m still singing. I’m still walking down this path of music and performing. I’m older, hopefully wiser, and still growing, still learning. And I’m reflecting on life as it strikes my memories at odd moments, reminding me of my homeward journey.
When I looked out of the sound booth, I saw the engineer, a couple of close friends, and lunch being delivered. That day I had driven up to the studio, through typical Nashville midmorning traffic, and settled in for a half-day session. I had to lay some new vocals on a song I’d already tracked months earlier.
But, as these things go in the music business, I had an idea and wanted to add something special to it—a few guest performers, a surprise for my listeners. Their tight harmonies and soulful delivery—mmm, mmm, I couldn’t wait to get their vocals dumped into the existing track and record some of my own fresh tidbits.
When I arrived at Blackbird Studio in Nashville, the engineer, Jeff Balding, who’s been responsible for not only the sound of all my solo records but also the sounds of the records with me and CeCe, had everything cued up, ready for me to begin.
But I had to listen to the tracks again with the additional vocals, the special surprise. And it was tasty. These cats were singers. And they were just kids. Their passion for music drew me in. I could feel it in their performance. They tucked themselves behind the notes. They surprised the listener at just the right time. And they delivered the good stuff, the payoff, at the perfect time. That’s what I heard growing up. When my parents or siblings heard good singing, they’d say, “Now So-and-so, they’re a sanger.”
Now the tricky part. Stepping into the booth and laying some new ad-libs while also producing myself. No small task. I like to argue with myself. But I usually win.
And so, it begins.
The tracks light up in my ears, bright and rich and full.
I close my eyes, and I don’t think. I just listen, and then I let the passion of the song move me.
It’s all about performance. And I don’t mean I’m in there putting on a performance. Anyone can perform in front of a crowd. But it takes something out of you when you really perform a song, while no one is watching or listening. But you better believe someone will be listening, years, even decades, later. And that performance you give in that moment, that lean in, that guttural you leave on the track, that’s what the unseen audience will hear. That’s a performance.
A performance is more than how you sing in front of people. A performance means something. You know when someone is performing to entertain and when someone is performing “the song.”
I think most people can detect this difference between the entertainer and the real performer. They just don’t know they’re detecting it. When you listen to a master performer, you’re listening to more than a song. You are actually stepping into the song and are transported by the performance. It’s a balance of raw talent and polish, of extemporaneous ad-lib and what’s written down on the paper somewhere.
Sometimes these master performances are so nuanced, it’s hard to tell. You can have two phenomenal singers perform the same song. And both might make you cry. But there will be something that separates one from the other. This level of performing rises above the mere “I’m going to entertain you here for five minutes with this song I like to sing.” The nuanced performance of seasoned singers can transcend the music that carries the song.
Both performers might be able to flawlessly sing the song. But one performance will touch something inside you—maybe a place that you didn’t know the music could reach. But it’s that special performer who not only feels the song, they become the song. They interpret the song from some deep place in their heart and soul. And that interpretation is what you hear. You don’t feel like you’re listening to just a song; you’re listening to this amazing singer perform their very soul.
In such a performance, a story unfolds. It’s not one you read or hear narrated. It’s one you sense in the way the person carries each note, or slides in and out of their breaks, or restrains themselves, holding out the glut of their passion until it is appropriate.
And maybe it isn’t appropriate at all. Maybe the song calls for a constant line of restraint. Maybe the passion of the song never comes in the much-anticipated glut of emotion. Maybe it comes in the final note of restraint, more spoken than sung. Sometimes the most beautiful, the most passionate, of things come to us in the quiet of an unforgettable note whispered on the ribbons of the microphone, fading back in the mix.
I like to eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel. When I’m in town, it’s my place to go after my early-morning workout. How early? Four thirty in the morning early. Years ago, I wanted to change my body—I wanted to lose all the weight I’d put on over the years of not taking care of myself. I got a trainer, and he helped me do it. He created a workout regime for me.
“If you follow this regime and stay disciplined, BeBe, you’ll lose the weight. But you won’t even know it because you’ll be gaining muscle.”
“Sign me up.”
I do my best work in the morning, so I made my mornings about getting healthy, getting fit. It was a brutal process. Looking for shortcuts to a healthier life, to losing weight? I’ve got some news for you. There are no shortcuts. Only hard work. Sacrifice. Hours alone in the gym on the stationary bike or on the treadmill.
But it’s not all bad.
I’ve formed relationships with a few people from my gym. We’ve become good friends. We keep one another accountable. You’re less likely to skip a morning workout if you have a friend ask, “Hey, you didn’t show up for the run this morning. What happened?”
But it’s the feeling of getting healthy that’s most addicting. You hack away at your body with blows of exercise and weight training. You don’t skimp. You do it right. You use the right form. And you show up. Day after dreary day. I like to say my favorite time of day is when I’m done with my workout. It’s true. I don’t like doing it. I get it done and move on.
You may wonder how I can like feeling healthy but also eat at Cracker Barrel. When you work as hard as I do on the weights, you’ll get it. I sit in the same area, so I can get the same server. I like the routine of it all. I like the simple things like getting up, getting the workout done, getting some breakfast. It’s my every day. Even when I’m out of town, I get it done, one way or the other.
The gym. Cracker Barrel. Short nap in the morning. More work. Then the studio. My day unfolds like it always does.
And here I stand, tired, my arms sore from the workout, eyes burning a bit because I went to bed too late the night before. My days haven’t always started this way. I’m aware of where I stand. And I remember what it took to get me here. And through it all, I’m still excited about the music, the process of making it, of getting it done and moving on to the next thing. And it’s this awareness of who I am and where I’ve come from that gives me confidence to sing on.
I like to sing in the car.
I hum and sing gibberish words to tunes I make up in my mind.
Thank God for the iPhone.
I sing or hum into the voice memo app and log them into my phone’s memory. I have voice notes from six years ago. I have song ideas from creative sessions prompted by weird dreams that woke me up in the middle of the night, and because I couldn’t go back to sleep, I composed with hums and made-up words. Those same gibberish tunes, those odd, obscure midnight melodies, they return to me, eventually. And it’s always when I least expect it.
It’s like I’m Elijah sitting out in the wilderness because God told me to—although God would never tell me that because He knows the wilderness and I do not mix; it’s only a metaphor—while the ravens bring me my food. Those tunes are my food, provided for me by God Himself. And they don’t always make sense, and I don’t always know what to do with them. So I tuck them away for a time to come. And it always does come.
A songwriter’s work is never done. It’s perpetual. It wakes you up and says, “Time to work. Write me down so you don’t forget.” And you must obey, or you’ll lose it. A singer’s life is the rhythm life of musings and tinkering, of discipline and hard work. What I love most about the music in my life is its ability to continually shape me. I am not a kid anymore, listening to my brothers sing. But in a lot of ways I am still that kid—singing from the shadows of voices that shaped me.
I sing while I drive. I record while I drive. Why? Because the songs ask me to. Because, whether the public hears it or not, I’m a singer. And I know that because the songs tell me so.
It’s already time for lunch, and I’ve only just listened and made mental notes to myself and fiddled around with ideas. Oh, I’ve been singing. But not performing—not yet. I’m remembering; the structure, the words, the cadence, the gaps begging for some passion. But when you’re in the studio, time can warp somehow, and suddenly the day is done and all you’ve accomplished is not much at all. These two hours evaporated in my mind.
We all dive into J. Alexander’s—fish tacos, salads, a few burgers—and talk about Gospel music and the Detroit scene from years ago. I dish on a few good stories I remember from growing up and hop back into the sound booth. It’s time to roll up my sleeves and get some things down.
I slip on the headphones. The tracks play. And I’m feeling good. I’m hearing so much now. When I look out of the sound booth, I see Jeff the engineer, a couple of close friends, and the remnants of lunch being eaten and tossed. Some scroll their phones; others chat.
But I also see my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass rectangle separating me and Jeff. And there I see my white beard and my camouflage trucker hat resting loosely on my head. I see my eyes staring back at me and then:
I see the smile carving up into my cheeks.
I see a singer, yes.
But also, my mother’s son. My dad’s young boy. How time flies. Seems only yesterday I was playing with my cousins in the alleyway between our old church on 2135 Mack Avenue, Zion Congregational Church of God in Christ, and the old Baptist church. Today, I can stand in between the churches, stretch out my arms, and nearly touch both buildings. But as kids, we thought that alley was enormous. Time flies, yes, but it also morphs your perspective.
But that boy now stands as a man, still pushing through, still pursuing what I love, still trying to bring the message we like to call the “Good News” to people who have never heard it before and to the hearts of those who have heard it but need inspiration for another day.
That’s what drives me. That’s why I stand here in this studio, staring into this glass. I see the boy, the singer, but there’s someone else in that stare. Hidden behind the ballcap grin and my father’s eyes, I see a preacher.