When life exceeds expectations

Can I get used to this, or what?

Pretending to be in mid-conversation with Ron Moultrie Saunders (episode coming soon!)

This past month I was lucky enough to be allowed into The Space Program Residency in San Francisco and was invited to use their fancy recording studio to record a series of new podcast interviews. (The first of which came out a couple weeks ago with artist Libby Black.) I had randomly heard about the residency from a friend (artist Jovi Schnell) and thought I would pitch a sound project there. Much to my surprise, they agreed and even hired a sound engineer who helped record Libby’s episode.

For most of my young life, my dad had a makeshift recording studio in the basement of our old house. It was cobbled together from various sound equipment that he had picked up over the years of being in bands, and recording in other basements, and more official studios.

There were more knobs and dials down there than I had ever seen in my life. If you had asked me, it would have been just as likely that this equipment could fly a plane or launch a missile. The only difference was, instead of a brightly lit cockpit with views of the world, the room was dark and windowless and the walls were covered with black styrofoam soundproofing tiles. Not exactly glamorous, but among other things it saw the exciting arrival of my dad’s first keyboard purchase, a Casio that played a demo of “It’s Still Rock n’ Roll to Me” by Billy Joel in 30-40 digital sounds, including ocean waves and a dog barking. (I could not find a video of it so if you do have one, let me know.)

When my parents moved at the end of my junior year, he set up a new studio in their basement, along with an office for his business. Again it wasn’t glamorous but this time at least there was a window. For years you could hear him recording various Beatles and Byrds songs, his voice coming up the basement stairs into the living room.

“The Bells of Rhymney” was a particular favorite, or perhaps one that he couldn’t quite get right, because he sang it maybe 200 hundred times over the course of one winter - a conservative estimate.

I was pretty hands-off when it came to his recording studio, except for the one time when I agreed to record my voice for a singing competition at my elementary school. He may have accompanied me on guitar as I sang “Where Have All The Flowers Gone.” It was a real bummer of a folk song to my young ears. And I was mortified by the nasally child’s voice that I heard. That’s nothing like what it’s supposed to sound like, I thought. (I appreciate singers like Bob Dylan quite yet.) My dad explained that it’s normal not to like your voice and that it doesn’t mean you have a bad one. Even John Lennon didn’t like hearing his voice recorded! But it was no use. My musical career was done before it started.

Now, as an adult, I love karaoke but have never felt truly natural singing solo in front of people. I don’t quite trust what I’m hearing. Am I on key? Does it sound ok? Are people listening? Am I dancing in an interesting way or does it look weird? I feel like it looks weird.

What has healed these insecurities was doing more karaoke than I felt comfortable with and now, recording a podcast where, lisp and all, my voice is a tool for communication and not the subject of vocal beauty standards.

Getting the chance to record in a legitimate recording studio is never something I even thought about for my life. Never thought to wish for. And yet here I was, in this space that had exceeded my expectations. I wished I could take a photo and send it to my dad who no doubt would be super proud and probably a little jealous of the opportunity. Although I’m also sure that he had something to do with getting me in there.

This happy accident has me thinking about the way that we plan out our dreams, and whether we allow surprises to overtake them. It’s hard to let go of futurizing when that can be the only mental safety net we have left- especially after a hard couple of years like the ones we have all had that make nothing feel certain.

But maybe there is an alternative. Is it possible to prepare oneself for things to go unexpectedly well? Can we trust that life is capable of exceeding expectations?

I’m not ready to accept the voice of my anxiety or the tired truism of ‘hope for the best, plan for the worst’ as the only way. If you’ve only planned for the worst, will you have the tools you need to take advantage of the best possible outcome when it arrives?