Change of tune – Fionnuala Ward on singing in public

The world is divided into three groups when it comes to singing. Those of us who can sing really well in a spine-tingly kind of way. Those of us who can sing more than adequately in a party-piece kind of way. And those of us who can occasionally hit the right note in an accidental kind of way.

I fall into category number three.

And needless to say, it is what happens before or after the hitting of the right note that makes the deepest impression.

But, of course, public singing is a ridiculous concept, anyway. No-one is ever prevailed upon to paint in public or write in public or launch into an interpretative dance in public. But as a species, we put an inordinate amount of stock in singing in public.

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And yes, for the most part, it is possible to avoid the whole scenario. To demur, to shake the head, to smile and gently gesture towards someone – anyone – else.

But it doesn’t always work that way. I was lucky enough to be at an international rugby match recently and when the announcer asked us to stand for the national anthems, I have to say, I took a deep breath.

Under normal circumstances, I love that whole ritual. I’ve as good as leapt over furniture to get to the sofa in time for Amhrán na bhFiann and Ireland’s Call. There is something deliciously wonderful about figuring out who’s singing or not singing or whether they know the words or whether they’re bluffing or whether they’re immersing themselves so much in the moment that you almost feel someone should take them aside and calmly explain that this not a life-or-death situation, honestly, it’s just a match. Almost.

And then there are the non-singers. My kindred spirits. When the broadcaster’s mic picks up their plucky attempts at difficult key changes, it so warms the heart. And the thing is, this tends to be most of the players, most of the time in most of the teams. Not that athletic prowess and musical talent are mutually exclusive. It’s just that they don’t always arrive in the same package.

And even when they do, the prospect of this musical talent being broadcast simultaneously to the greater populations of two nations can fairly stifle the vocal chords.

Even in the stands, without any of this pressure, it all became a bit too much for me as well. I found myself caught between not singing and somehow signalling a denial of my forebears and singing and most definitely signalling a definite inability to sing.

And so, I fudged the issue. Making an effort for the easier bits and going all low and muttery for the harder bits.

But then I’ve been here before. And bear the scars.

Not for either the national anthem or Ireland’s Call. But for the most treacherous ballad of all.

Danny Boy.

"We've found a song from Ireland, " a fellow teacher jubilantly declared. This was 1994 and I'd recently joined the staff of a Japanese high school, the first non-Japanese teacher on staff.

An official event to start the school year was scheduled to take place in a local hotel and was set to involve the formal introduction of the five newly-appointed teachers to the 150 or so in attendance.

“Dan-ny boy!”, the teacher jubilantly exclaimed.

I asked for immediate clarification. Everyone would be joining in?

“Oh sure,” he beamed, and then, as if sensing the escape routes already forming in my head, he unleashed a blanket strike of guilt and global relations. “New teachers always sing. It’s our custom.”

And so for five evenings, I sat in my apartment and practised. No offer of a karaoke machine or any kind of accompaniment had been made, so it was just me plucking a note out of the air and going for it.

And, of course, Danny Boy starts off innocently enough, for the unsuspecting that is. But then the music rises slowly and surreptitiously until the Himalayan heights of “come ye back” are reached, and it is at this point that a rogue note somehow bursts loose and into the cosmos for that assertion of being “there” in all kinds of weather, good and bad.

I can still see the faces in the audience. A look of confusion, laced with a strained politeness.

Nobody joined in. Why would they? And in the five years I spent in that school, it was never spoken of. Ever.

I get it that those who can sing, want to sing. Good for them. But for the rest of us, we’d like to be left to our own devices, please. To sing, to not sing, to intermittently sing as we see fit.

Believe me, it’s a really good deal.