Singing has always given me the illusion of sacred levitation.
When I was about 10 and no one was home, I sang Whitney Houston's entire acrobatic repertoire in my stairwell. Otherwise in my shower because the echo amplified my voice. I mistakenly thought I was supporting Whitney vocally.
One day, when I was particularly convinced that I was touching grace, I invited my sister to come to my room and listen to me sing. I played my idol's cassette of the same name and composed background vocals to accompany his singing, all in very broken English.
After five songs – probably a very long torture – I asked my sister: Vicky, do you think I should contact Whitney about re-recording her album with my voice over hers?
My sister answered elegantly: Hmm, how should I tell you? Listen: It's nice with your voice, but it's really not necessary. That's why I never contacted Whitney but continued to sing her repertoire.
Like her, I signed up for my church's choir. It was called crescendo. I sang in church every Sunday. My choir teacher said I sang well enough to be given a solo. A whole verse from the song If You Hear.
Normally Nathalie Turcot had this privilege, her voice fascinated me. Finally it was my turn! Except I was 12, a vocally unattractive age for boys… And I didn't exactly have the genius of Whitney or Mozart…
Mozart heard Allegris Miserere in the Sistine Chapel in 1770 at the age of 14. That same evening he had copied the exact score of the private song from memory. A few years later the original scores were lost. We had no choice but to resort to the works of Mozart.
In 1974, at the age of 11, Whitney managed to bring the faithful to sobs at the New Hope Baptist Church in New Jersey by singing the song “Lead me, O Thu, great Jehovah” in her angelic voice without false notes.
In 1994, at the age of 12, I managed to perform the astonishing feat of Mauser live in the Saint-Rémi-de-Napierville church, in the middle of the solo of the song If you listen. A true divine betrayal. I like to tell myself that I lost my faith and my voice at the same time.
My voice broke in front of the entire pious and confused crowd. It was enough to no longer believe in God.
I let go of the spotlight and the choir, but I continued to sing, secluded at home, in my own personal soundboard.
As a child, Simon Boulerice took refuge in the stairwell to sing.
Photo: Denis Wong
One day, in the fourth secondary school, I saw an advertisement in the school newspaper: We were looking for voices for an extracurricular choir. I applied and was delighted to learn that there was no audition: everyone was invited to sing Christmas carols. It was the beloved history teacher who ran the whole thing. When she asked who wanted to do a solo, I shyly raised my hand; I felt ready, the tone was pretty complete and left me with a nasal voice but just right. But that wasn't the opinion of my history teacher, who abruptly rejected my offer: “You sing with your nose too much, Simon.” It's not nice.
Looking back, I realize she was right. But his openness at the time was a huge blow.
His refusal had erased something in me. I continued with choir practice, but my heart was no longer in it, I was too anxious with every note I pressed. Did I ruin the whole thing? Was I a burden, the one who slowed down the clan, who damaged the scope of the song?
My history class no longer had the same interest either: during the hour and a half of class I played myself over and over again, like a sentence that was vocally superimposed on the news about wars and genocides: You sing way too much nose, Simon. It's not nice.
But the desire to sing overcame my humiliation. So I continued rehearsing and lowered the volume more and more.
On the day of our public performance, haunted by my teacher's judgment, I offered a lip sync with faltering conviction. I sang silently for fear of destroying the harmony. A lip sync to maintain the fullness of the vocals.
My only moments of vocal freedom were when my voice echoed in the stairwell upon returning from class. The ritual inherited from my childhood continued. I was alone, I respected my modesty, but paradoxically I opened the windows wide, hoping that an artist's agent would pass by on Rue Poupart and be fascinated by my voice. That the bell rang and said “My God,” but who sang? I would respond humbly (but still not Cinderella's humility), with a little wave of my hand that says, Stop it, you: “It's me…”
– Can I sign you? I feel like if I bet on you, I'll reap big rewards.
– Oh come on. Are you sure?
– Certainly!
– I don't sing with my nose too much?
– Pantoute! Your voice is gold in a bar.
I heard this sentence in the film Up Close and Personal, which was released a year earlier in 1996. In the translation of the script by Joan Didion and her husband John Gregory Dunne, Robert Redford (Warren Justice) said to Michelle Pfeiffer (Sally Atwater). ) that her voice was bullion gold. Now I imagined a mix of René Angelil and Robert Redford saying the same words to me.
But no. Nobody called me and wanted me to sign a contract with Sony Music.
Simon Boulerice, at home.
Photo: Denis Wong
This year I was at a dinner in Montreal with Lara Fabian and her entire fan club, which I had been a member of for several years. It was the fan club that organized the evening. I was accompanied by my friends Catherine and Nathalie. Nathalie, who sang as beautifully as always…
I remember being jealous when he grabbed Rick Allison, Lara's manager and lover, by the arm and told him that she dreamed of becoming a singer. Behind her, I too had mumbled stupidly. He had smiled politely and Catherine, who used to accompany her friend at the piano, had elbowed him in the ribs and asked him to sing something obvious.
Nathalie, full of nerves, offered Tu t'en vas a cappella. She had courage and talent, but her memory for words was more shaky than mine. I was behind her to whisper the forgotten words to her, and I took the opportunity to hum them with intensity. I opened my windows wide to move Rick Allison.
If I could, I would tell you to stay with me
A tear breaks on my heart and soul
I dont have the right
I want to keep you there
Speak to yourself gently
When my bare skin trembles under your fingers
And I see in your eyes that you want her
You walk away and leave me alone behind you…
It was I who gave Rick Allison the line, “When my bare skin trembles beneath your fingers,” but he didn't seem to tremble any harder. Nathalie seemed partly annoyed that this spontaneous audition turned into a duet. My nasal voice may have just cost him a contract with Sony Music.
The author Simon Boulerice.
Photo: Denis Wong
The following year, in secondary 5, Nathalie and Catherine had the project of creating a music show. Anyone who wanted to could offer a service. I said to myself: Try again… I chose a vocally accessible song: “It was winter” by Francis Cabrel. Realizing that the song was missing something, Catherine suggested that Nathalie do the backing vocals for my version and I have to agree, it was really pretty. After You're Going the roles were reversed.
On the evening of the presentation, still in the church of Saint-Rémi-de-Napierville – I was able to reconnect with that divine scene and those acoustics even more heavenly than those of my stairwell – everything went well. I was applauded and secretly believed I had potential. But after the show, my friend Geneviève told me that she was sitting behind my history teacher, who was laughing and saying to her neighbor: Enweille, Nathalie! Bury Simon! Bury his nasal voice!
So I finally buried my singing dreams. I put aside the desire to sing on stage. Literature was my teacher for all my later successes. I studied literature at CEGEP and then at university. When I went to theater school, I took my choral singing class as shyly as possible. I took my notes carefully so as not to harm the group.
But life has been kind to me. A few years after I left school, I was offered a few musical platforms: En direct de l'univers and Belle et bum for piano galore, where I miserably postponed my plan to sing Whitney – I fell back on Marjo, afraid of hatred on social networks.
Then one day I was invited to sing the karaoqui part at La Semaine des 4 Julie. Karaoqui is karaoke but with a curtain. So we don't know who is singing. And when the guests recognize the voice, the curtain suddenly falls in a Kabuki effect, revealing the person hiding behind it. I said to myself: Go ahead, Boulerice. Nobody will see you! No one to judge you. It's the perfect time to pretend you're Whitney!
I went there and sang “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.” I don't know what happened, but it looked beautiful from the inside. I said to myself: Well, let's see that I can master all the notes equally! Oh come on! It sounded pure and sincere, like the stairwell of my youth. And while I was singing, one of Julie Snyder's guests thought I was France Castel. To this day, that is the most flattering compliment I have heard in my life.
Unfortunately, when I listened to myself again the next day, I realized that I didn't know any notes. It was a fiasco across the board. And yet my memory was so happy. Then I realized: sometimes the state you are in when you create something is more important than the result. Of course the result is important, but what singing brings me is worth something.
Since then, I've been singing like I did in my youth, and I open my windows wide, and suddenly a manager comes by in front of my house and shudders at such sincerity.
Because I may not get the bill, but I get the joy.
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Header illustration by Sophie Leclerc based on a photo by Denis Wong
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