My name is Alex
and I’m an alcoholic.
I am also a classically trained singer: a true basso cantabile. My voice and the disease of addiction comprise the core of who I am, where I have been, and how I see the world today. The origins and journey of my alcoholism and the development of my voice and career are inextricably linked. Both were an invitation to the gates of hell, and both are the promise upon which my recovery and spirituality lie.
Like most singers, I have never been fully at ease with this thing in my body that produces this sound. Does is belong to me or is it on loan? Does it run throughout my entire body or does it exist solely in my throat? How can this purely physical act produce such a metaphysical response in me? Why doesn’t it do what I tell it to? Who exactly is in control here?
Some of my earliest memories are of giving living room concerts. My family patiently sat in artfully prearranged seating while I segued into my finest, purest, most emotive duets with the pop divas of the ‘70s. An art song salon it wasn’t. But these early performances later helped me deal with master classes. As we all know, when we’re performing for a public audience we can get away with a lot—but family and fellow singers are a different story.
My exposure to classical music in general and opera in particular began when I transferred to an elite college preparatory school. In a music appreciation class, I discovered Leontyne Price as Aïda. I discovered Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and the beauty of German lieder. I discovered Beverly Sills, Joan Sutherland and Kathleen Battle displaying the art of the coloratura, Janet Baker and Frederica Von Stade as young men. I discovered Paul Robeson and Marion Anderson, with their voices of sorrow and triumph.
Finally, I had found the supreme amalgamation of emotion and music. I had found my God.
In high school I clung to friends whom I viewed as more worldly and sophisticated. Seen through the lense of my burgeoning aspirations, these were seasoned performers. Being older than I, many of them had already started experimenting with drugs—a concession to an overall “artistic” lifestyle of which I wanted earnestly to partake. Consequently, my introduction to drugs in high school was neither scary nor deterring—a fact I continue to regret.
I can only imagine how many addicts could have avoided sinking into the full-blown, debilitating stage of this disease if they had not found such an instant “solution” to their problems. My belief that drug and alcohol use is a form of freedom was a lie, a lie I would continue to tell myself for many years—even after the truth of the destruction of my life became apparent to everyone.
By some miracle I graduated from high school with a minimum of reprimands, and college was on the horizon.
College life was everything my self-obsession desired it to be: My true bass voice opened doors for me that my humble southern roots could never have budged. My freshman year I snagged the best voice teacher on campus, joined the ubiquitous collegiate a cappella group, toured New England, made a host of good-time acquaintances—and never went to class.
I had a comfortable low “B” at the age of 18. Two university professors who judged some competitions I was in and a vocal coach I worked with all commented on the unusually beautiful quality of my voice. I only share this to reinforce the pressure I felt regarding something over which my control was tenuous, even at the best of times. My stubbornly limited upper range was a constant stressor, and the older singers on campus regarded me with a mix of admiration, suspicion and jealousy. Drink became both comforter and confidence booster.
For four years, my life was a non-stop party. If finances or circumstances ever dictated that I had to go to bed sober, I was personally affronted. Trying to sleep was hopeless unless I was at least mildly inebriated. Without the anesthetizing effect of intoxicants, too many thoughts and feelings came to the fore. Along with the personal, internal demons I sought to keep at bay, the ever-looming prospect of failing, with its resultant shame and disappointment, seemed inevitable—and not an issue with which I was at all willing to contend. It was so much easier to float toward the rocks than to actually do anything to rectify the situation.
In my fifth year—necessitated by a forced leave of absence—the lights began to fade on my imaginary kingdom. A couple of friends (from whom I quickly distanced myself) confronted me about my drinking. In my mind, they were simply jealous—it was far simpler to tell myself that than to acknowledge my waning popularity and quickly progressing illness.
I missed lessons and rehearsals with increasing regularity. I even caused the cancellations of two productions in which I had secured the lead—I was too drunk to learn my roles. One was the staging of a new opera, the other a piece a friend of mine was directing. My carefully planned senior recital failed to appear, much to the chagrin of my teacher and accompanist. The one highlight of the year (which my ego held onto with all its might) was a review of a production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore in which I played Robin Oakapple. The local critic thought I was completely miscast, but followed the introduction of my name with “a singer from whom we expect to hear a lot in the future.”
After college, I spent the summer with a nationally known light opera company. Although I was surrounded by singers of a higher caliber than I had ever experienced, it quickly became apparent that I was still the lowest voice in town. It didn’t take me long to capitalize on this opportunity. Lead roles were scarce (reserved for baritones and tenors) but every bass solo came my way.
At this point I started resenting my voice. I realized that in the real world of singing I would probably be relegated to a career in early music and oratorios. In fact, one of the directors (who writes for a national music magazine) encouraged me to do just that. I probably would have been all right with that choice, if I thought the adoration I felt I deserved was available in that milieu. I left that program feeling bitter at my lot and determined to make it big somehow.
Relocation became a normal way of life for me. I would enter a new city and quickly become enmeshed with a fresh group of people I won over with my alcohol-induced charm and the novelty of my voice. My entire sense of self rested in my voice. There was no me independent of the self-imposed identity I had created.
I continued along this path for a few more years, carrying along the ever more cumbersome twin burdens of self-righteous indignation and fear. By the time I moved back to Texas, I was defeated. My last misadventure had blown up with sufficient force to expose years of betrayal and deceit on my part. Lifelong associations were ruined. I was broken and ashamed at having to return to the place I had so desperately sought to escape, the place where it all began. So of course I turned to alcohol for solace. Anything was better than having to look at my life of wasted opportunity.
I was ripe for the picking when cocaine came along. Coke enabled me to feel nothing at all—a relief from the torrents of confusion and dismay alcohol left behind. No longer able to rely on my voice and charm, I quit singing for three years. I did not sing in the shower. I did not hum along with the radio. My God had failed me.
My self-delusion was at its zenith as I raged against God for opening doorways to possibilities undreamt of only to have them shut in my face. I continued on this course for a few more years as I sought a painless way to die. Loss of friends, the hurt feelings of family members, problems with the law, homelessness—none of these were sufficient to rouse me from the path of self-destruction I was on.
I had been to various treatment centers, and the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, thanks to the courts. I learned a lot about my disease, made friends with all the counselors and resolved to do well and budget my money wisely to include my drug habit when I left. The fact that I found myself in ever debilitating circumstances was a mystery to me. So was this whole “12-step” thing that I’d hear about in treatment. We’d always have these guys show up telling us their sob stories and how much better life was now that they were in “the program.” I figured I might be down and out, but I was still special. Those people weren’t like me, I told myself. Things would be looking up any day now—just as soon as I had the right job, lover, apartment, friends, etc.
Change came to me in a Port-A-Let in the middle of a thunderstorm.
I do not know why God as I understand him today decided to enter my heart during that fateful deluge. Before I passed out for the evening, I remember telling God that he would either have to change something or just not wake me up, because this mess wasn’t cutting it anymore. I woke up.
At the risk of sounding like one of those poor chumps I had judged so roundly, my life today is better than it has ever been.
My vocal career currently consists of singing at a weekly church service. I usually perform arrangements of traditional Negro spirituals or modern church music. People enjoy my singing but neither they nor I define me by it. I am able to enjoy the process of making music and the nascent joy of song in a way I hadn’t in years. I also have a student, a 45-year-old man who’s always wanted to sing a solo in his church. He has no idea how much he teaches me by his enthusiasm and dedication. I don’t recall ever having enjoyed breathing exercises so much. In addition, I am putting together a lecture/recital program on the art of the slave song and spirituals that I hope to take to local schools.
I have a real friend today, a relationship based on honesty, love, respect and accountability that I would not trade for all of the accolades of strangers or compliments from acquaintances I so desperately sought in the past. One valid connection with another human being is worth more to me today than applause.
Alcoholics Anonymous has not just given me tools for living—it has given me my life. Old problems and situations still exist. The world has not changed just because I decided to get sober. I volunteer at an information hotline where I get to reach out to alcoholics who are still struggling with this disease. They help me much more than I help them. Circumstances and emotions do not dictate my actions to the obsessive extent they used to. It amazes me that non-addicts are able to do this on a daily basis without the Twelve Steps.
I believe that everything that has happened in my life has led me to this moment. So I try not to regret the past or dwell on the what-ifs. A woman in the program once told me that God answers all of her prayers: He either gives her what she desires, or he changes her dream. What I receive today is different and broader than I could have ever imagined.
And that’s exactly how it should be.
Alex P. can be reached at
recoveredsinger@hotmail.com
