Singin’ the Weeping Water Blues (<i> Sotto Voce</i> , by Request)

In response to incessant public demands to “tell us more about the Weeping Water years!” maybe it’s time to purge myself of a long-lingering ghost from that painful period. Who knows, writing about it might help.

Weeping Water is a town of about 1,000 people in southeastern Nebraska, noteworthy for its limestone quarry and the annual presence of the Cass County Fair. We moved there in the late summer of 1963, just as I was starting my freshman year in high school and making the transition from nondescript youth to goofball teen-ager.

By then I had already developed a love for rock music. The Top 40 was a staple in my life, and I’d spend most evenings lying on my bed and singing along either with the radio or to the 45s on the record player that, as a 14-year-old, I finally got for Christmas.

The Beach Boys were very big in Nebraska, and I thought I had the singular talent to sound like any of the five of them. As soon as their newest single or album would reach town, I’d try to scrounge up the 45 cents or $2.99 to buy them.

I’d croon away in perfect harmony, not realizing until years later that my mother and sister would secretly crouch outside my window and get their jollies listening to me.

If only they had told me.

I met a kid in Weeping Water who’s still one of my best friends, and we were quickly linked by our love of music. Figuring at 14 that it was time to plan our lives, we decided we’d someday form a two-man singing group. We dreamed of being on the big marquees at the big music houses. After much deliberation about what to call ourselves, we dubbed ourselves The Persons Who Wear Their Shirts Outside of Their Pants, or, for short, The Persons.

We pictured Ed Sullivan announcing over the rising din, “Ladies and gentlemen, direct from Weeping Water, Neb.--they’ve just flown in to be with us tonight--The Persons Who Wear Their Shirts Outside of Their Pants!”

And we just kept dreaming our dream.

Until that day in music class.

In those days in a small town like Weeping Water, most everybody took part in at least one after-school activity. The boys went out for football, whether we liked it or not; girls tried out for the cheerleading squad, whether they liked it or not.

So it was with the student choir, which I think was called the Glee Club.

Despite my career plans, I hadn’t ever sung in public before. I hadn’t joined the club for the first couple of months of the school year, but around Christmastime there apparently was a shortage of male voices so I was recruited for a practice.

I remember that we had either two or three rows of singers, arranged by the range of our voices. I remember that we started singing a Christmas carol. I remember Bert Marshall, the other charter member of The Persons, singing in a deep, rich voice.

I remember the music teacher suddenly looking as if a bug had just flown down her throat. What was that she had heard? Gadzooks, someone was singing out of tune! Where was the miscreant? She began patrolling the group with a fixed glare, stopping for a moment in front of each row and craning her neck to put her ear as close as she could to each singer.

She neared my section. I continued warbling.

She stopped directly in front of me. “You!” she said, pointing at me. Everyone stopped.

The day the music died.

To this day, I know she wasn’t trying to be mean. Although she pointed, and may she rot in hell for that, if we could see a videotape it probably would show that she wasn’t as hostile as I remember it--that she was merely excited about finding the leak in her airtight ship.

That was my last day in the choir.

Bert Marshall remained my best friend, but we didn’t discuss the Sullivan show nearly as much after that. We concluded that having a two-man singing group in which one member couldn’t sing or play an instrument would be an insurmountable problem.

Bert now lives in rural Massachusetts. In college, he played in a local rock band good enough to get out-of-state bookings. He’s also cut a demo tape, which he sent me a few years ago, and has had some coffee house gigs.

My singing career took a slightly different course. I’ve performed in showers and automobiles across the country, but never in the presence of another person. Over the years, thinking my secret was safe, I started deluding myself again into believing I could sing. To my ear, I do my best sing-alongs to the songs of Jackson Browne, Elton John and, curiously, Anne Murray.

The pain from the Weeping Water Incident has subsided.

I’d say it’s completely disappeared, except that I still feel that tightening in the throat and queasiness in the stomach whenever I see a karaoke sign in a bar.