Dummies

His voice wanders in itself. For me – I’m not thinking of anyone else. Just for me does it exert this fascination. And this ‘for me’ is the cause of my own wandering in myself. I follow him; I search for a discography, I look out for his CDs: he has been everywhere, travelled everywhere, and so must I.

Does he know what his voice becomes? Is he, too, fascinated by the ‘itself’ of his voice, his voice itself? Perhaps there are singers fascinated by their own voices. Who seek only to follow it, to find songs that best suit its wandering. Who from their own labels to record their own songs, who travel everywhere, to the four corners of the world so that it can wander yet further. I owe this to my voice. I owe everything to my voice, for who am I apart from my singing?

Then the singer, like the listener, is set back from his voice. It is not his. He belongs to his voice; it is his ventriloquist. Puppet, how will you ever be capable of the voice you were given? But to whom is it given, this gift? Only to itself, and to its wandering. The voice is already lost, the gift given to itself somewhere far away from you. Now you, like me, are only a listener. You like, me, are the dummy of the voice.

Three dummies of this kind: Will Oldham, who falls short of his voice in serious joy, seeking out collaborative friendships; Chan Marshall, who falls short of it in hazy bewilderment, who can scarcely let herself sing one song in an hour’s performance; Bill Callahan, who wants to be alone to fall short of his voice, letting it echo back to him in empty rooms.