Do birds sing, or do they speak?
In my practice with choirs, sometimes we just do an improv with vocal sounds — sirens, improvised words. There was one occasion where I asked the group what they would like to follow up this exercise with, and I heard “let’s sing”. This made me ask myself — what exactly qualifies as singing and why?
The person who says “let’s sing now” might not themself be aware that they are reinforcing a value judgment. What they might actually mean is: “What we’ve just done is nothing like the music I’m used to listening to, or like the music I see others listen to. This is not how singing works, as far as I know!” Obviously, they don’t recognise more freeform vocal expressions as singing. So, what are their actual expectations, and where do they come from?
We are so immersed in equal-temperament music that we don’t recognise anything outside of it as song — or maybe not as “real song.” Someone might hum a melody with little accuracy, but if someone sings that same melody in equal temperament right after, this will get recognised as “the actual song” immediately — because it points at a memory of something that was originally in equal temperament. If I listen to old recordings of Polish folk music, there is no notion of singing in tune or in time, strictly — same with very old blues, or rap, or any other vocal expression that is outside of the soundtrack that the music industry fills our life with. A hum is its own special moment — but it is often neglected as “trying to be like the recording.” “I must sound like the recording” means “I must replicate what is already out there as accurately as possible” — which also means that I judge anything that doesn’t fit my idea of “safe,” in myself and also in others, by proxy. Ever so often I’ve heard people say things like “X has a really good voice — they should go on a talent show,” as if the point of singing was to be judged and to compete. This to me speaks of losing sight of the playful, participative and shared aspect of singing, which I believe is a loss we cannot afford in the long run as humans.
When children sing, we usually don’t put heavy social expectations on them. We readily recognise a child’s vocal play, chants and invented rhymes as song — but if an adult does the same thing, we tend to care much less whether it gives them pleasure. We don’t want creativity, we want a finished product. Anything too “out there” or “daring” is usually rejected as “not music” or “not song” (unless the performer is someone we look up to, in which case we tend to interpret it in their favour). In Polish there is a term radosna twórczość — “joyful creativity” — often used in a derogatory sense: something spontaneous but outside of the acceptable norm; perhaps “cringe” is the closest anglophone idea. Obviously nobody expects whales and children to sing in equal temperament — but an adult is measured against a societal standard. This touches on a more general question of normativity, of associating beauty with sameness, of fear of originality or individuality. Doing something jarring is a risk, and public shaming is something everyone tries very hard to avoid. To negate the playfulness of one’s own vocal expression — “half-sung” rhymes, hummed melodies, invented syllables and languages — is to impose self-judgment: what I do doesn’t qualify as singing.
Whenever people say they don’t have a sense of pitch, the following reflection comes back to me: if a speaker can understand the difference between rising and falling intonation in speech — in languages which differentiate it this way, like English — then they have a sense of pitch already. Pitch is a component of speech, and we process it without any reflection every day. So the learning process is a process of sensitisation — this can only happen if we allow ourselves to produce sound in the first place. Our starting point might be being able to differentiate “higher” or “lower”, but learning to do it with more accuracy is totally trainable. The limitations are often psychological — a melody is “too high for what I’m comfortable with”, so instead of following it, I sing it in parallel, but lower, etc.
The reality is, the human ear can easily distinguish how consonant and dissonant the notes sung are in a certain context. An octave is a 2:1 ratio for example, and you don’t need a piano or any other instrument to tune it — there is a certain physical sensation of “unity” which singing in octaves produces. The more-technical name for this kind of approach is “just intonation” — we look for notes which ring together in simple harmonic ratios — this is something pretty much all a cappella styles leverage. I have heard many inexperienced singers with an unexplored vocal range sing a melody in perfect parallel fifths (3:2 frequency ratio), because that’s the purest they can get without leaving their vocal “comfort zone”.
When I hear someone sing in parallel in rehearsal, my teaching practice is very context-dependent. The most important thing is — the singer is not “wrong”. They can harmonise, they have a sense of the melodic contour. If I’m dealing with a total beginner, I leave it — it’s them finding their voice. Once I’ve built enough rapport, I might point it out, but often I keep it to myself and make a mental note that they need to explore various parts of their range, to see how their voice can “snap” to octaves rather than fifths. What that tells me is that the next step of the work is vocal exploration, not aural training — through play, through “loud, confident and wrong,” through creating opportunities to try new things.
I feel like the question of “what counts as song” has to do with our tendency to distance ourselves from anything animalistic — to construct systems and rules of behaviour that signify to humans that they are human, be it with a dress code, architectural arrangements, or tonal systems. There are many ways to tune, many ways to feel time. Sometimes the exact pitch is just not that relevant — what matters more is the pulse of the music, and the integrity of the performance. When we say “in tune”, we often mean “in tune with a certain group of people”, defined by this particular system, by this particular way of doing things. We treat it like it’s objective, rather than invented, when in fact these systems are a product of specific cultures at a specific time.
Ultimately, what qualifies as singing is situational — and we are only willing to try what we believe is permitted. If we never try, we don’t exercise the muscle, and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. To “sing like an animal” is considered a slur — but fundamentally, all song arises in play, in trying things out. One beautiful context I’ve heard singing emerge in is an adaptation of the “circle song” dynamic I’ve introduced. A group of people who trust each other is divided into three sub-groups, and a person from the group gives a loop for each of the three to sing. When they’re done — crucially — they invite another person to the circle and take their place, based on who hasn’t been to the centre in a long time. The group is instructed to stay in time as a whole; this makes it so beginners get an opportunity to conduct the group, to create something in an accepting environment — something which is mirrored to them in a kind way.
In my experience, there exists a very consistent pattern. When one creates a space where adults are free to express themselves vocally however they choose, knowing that their audience is prepared to welcome and accept their input — new things emerge, preconceptions about the voice are broken, ranges improve, energy is released, harmony stabilises.
Whether something counts as singing — or as “adequate” singing — is a judgment made by a listener, or by the person vocalising. Do birds sing, or do they speak? If I repeat any phrase, like “cellar door,” a few times, is that speech, or is it song? Who gets to decide? Fundamentally, “was that singing?” is an intellectual judgment — and when we are in the flow, in the middle of telling a story with our voice, alone or with others or with instruments, we are not in an intellectual-judgment state. The focus is on the joy, on the expression. If I express what I have to express, it doesn’t matter whether it’s song or speech or grunt or whisper.