I'd been told my entire life that I couldn't sing. Not just that I couldn't belt out a show tune; even joining in on “Happy Birthday” would get me funny looks. I grew up on Jersey in the 1960s, and at primary school our music lessons began with the class standing up; each pupil could take their chair only after successfully singing a scale. I went through a whole term without ever sitting down.
I live in New York now and over the past year I've found my voice - literally and metaphorically - in a way I never dreamed possible. It started with picking up my guitar after a decade-long hiatus. (I'd noodled around on and off since my teens, and played in a couple of bands, with less than earth-shattering results.) I realised I was a much better player at 50 than I had been as a young man, partly because I was focused on it like never before: I'd come home from my Manhattan media job and play for hours every night.
I found a teacher, who told me the best way to remember the structure of a song was to sing the words. I laughed and explained that exposing anyone to my vocals was probably a breach of the Geneva Convention. Nonsense, he insisted: anyone can learn to carry a tune.