If you ask almost any person what talent they’d wish for, out of any and all they currently don’t have, in most cases you’d hear: “I wish I could sing!”

That’s the one.

Which is understandable.

Because there’s just nothing quite like it, singing. That physical, visceral explosion of sound and emotion that transforms the human body into a conduit for something passionate, aural, and chill producing. An art form that’s truly as endorphin rushing as good exercise, the perfect roller coaster, great sex and full participation in The Sound of Music Sing Alongs (which has to be a high point for pretty much anyone).

Beyond just the act of singing is the performance of it. That’s a whole other layer of experience that’s not only hard to beat, but somewhere near 11 on the scale of 10 when it comes to classic wish fulfillment. Standing onstage pouring heart and soul into a microphone to the beat of a drum and the fierce, pounding intensity of a band in motion does rate high on enchantment, whether it’s singing Etta James at a B.B. King’s club, doing a stripped down version of your original set at the Good Hurt, or crooning 40 minutes of “Let’s Stay Together” for the money dance at a local wedding. I, for one, consider my abilities in the form a worthy tradeoff  for missing out on high cheek bones and a sense of direction.

I started this article about seven months ago; last summer, after a long-time friend and musical collaborator who I’d not seen in a long time got in touch to invite me to sing with his band. This was a deep and tremendous boon; it’d been years and I feared that part of my identity had abandoned me altogether. So when I got the call, excited and anticipatory, I was inspired to write about it, feeling as though a new/old chapter had opened in my life which surely merited some prose. But for some reason I put the celebration on hold back then; don’t know why. Prescient, perhaps?

But some of you have asked recently, “Hey, what happened to your band?” so I decided to finally wrap up the article in response. Besides, I like stories to have an ending. So read on, all questions will be answered.

As noted in Chick Singer, Part 1, my life as a vocalist began with a gentle foray into folk music, then bum-rushed its way to rock & roll and blues for pretty much the rest of the ride. While certainly the 80′s, part of the 90′s and a good chunk of the early 2000′s remained focused on this “calling” and the attendant ambition wrought by my laser-focus on being a successful singer/songwriter (more on that journey in later chapters), in the last five years – a tad weary and out of options – I packed up my microphones, therapied through the subsequent five stages of grief and got on with the rest of my life.

For those who’d suggest, “Couldn’t you keep doing it even as a fun hobby?” – YES. I could. And here’s what happened as I went through months of auditions simply trying to find a guitar player (damn me for not learning to play well enough to ever want me to play with me!):

1. “Love your music but I don’t want to actually play songs, I’d rather just jam.” Hello, you had my CD, those were songs.

2. “Wow, you’re great but I was hoping for something a little more developed.” Remember when I told you it was just me?

3. “So how likely do you think it is that you’ll be getting a record deal?” Not. Dealbreaker?

4. “I only work in the West LA area.” Then why are you here?

5. “How old are you?” Nope, not goin’ there.

6. “If you sang on a Jefferson Starship album, wow…you’ve been around a while!” Yep…see #5.

7. “I bet you were hot in the 80′s.” No comment.

8. “You’ve got a great bluesy thing goin’ but no one wants that anymore.” I hate you.

9. “I only work with people I can do a full chart on before we work together.” If you mean astrology as opposed to a music, pay for your Starbucks and take a hike. (It was the astrology kind.)

I could go on and on. Seriously. On and effing on. If you put it in a movie they’d say you were flogging cliches but it was like one of those bad audition montages, just without the quick-cuts and perky soundtrack. I think it was after #9 that I finally snapped and took the road less traveled. Until I got that call from my friend last June.

What followed was a buzz of identity integration, as if all my parts were once again coming together to form the full, cogent ME. Yes, I am a writer, a photographer, a mother, wife, sibling, and friend but I am also a singer and, hallelujah, get the band bag down, the microphones dusted, the stand out from behind the luggage and those vocal exercises crackin’ tout suite…we’re in a band, sister!

I felt more excited than I had in a while, particularly to be working with a dear, old friend who knew me – my chops, my style, my taste in music, my work ethic – as well as knew the stated criteria: great players, great tunes, sane people and no agendas. I figured if I’m going to bother at this wizened stage of my life, with ambition tempered and a goal to simply experience the pleasure of performance, it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be fun. No other reason to do it. He agreed and we got started.

I spent a month whipping my voice into shape and, let me tell you, it was exhilarating to discover it was still there…one never presumes. Over the next four months, I spent hours researching material, printing lyric sheets, learning songs, driving the 50 mile round-trip to rehearsal and back, gelling beautifully with my new “band of boys” and getting nothing but positive feedback. And it was FUN!! At a time when writing demanded solitude, work required pavement pounding, and family life could be challenging (see Empty Nest Pt. 3: See You In November!, Cowboy Strong and Poetry Sweet…Love In the Age of MTBI & The Mother Of My Reinvention), there was something basic and pure in this endeavor; I was singing, hanging out with musicians and eating mixed nuts…how cool is that?

But like any good story there had to be a plot twist, an inciting incident. And there was. Just as we finally got four sets worth of classic and hand-picked blues/R&B/jazz/rock material worked up, including one of my own tunes with more to come (per a request from my band leader buddy), there was a short break in the momentum. The drummer had to move, work schedules got challenged, and the keyboard player quit. “No worries,” my buddy assured, “Everyone else is still onboard and I’ll just find someone to replace him.” Before long he had a new guitarist in line to replace the keyboard player, a guy who apparently sang really well, too (“you guys’ll sound GREAT together!”), the buzz resurfaced, the keyboard player even re-emerged and, yippee, let’s get this new guy worked in and the party started!

That was October. And then came the the third act.

By December, no rehearsal had forth come. After repeated emails, texts, a few phone conversations (in which I was always assured things were still on track), and despite the unfortunate hiatus, I kept the faith…with obvious reservations. During my last phone call my buddy promised: “I’ll get a group email out to get this going again.” OK, great… nice holiday gift to look forward to, right? It never happened. Merry freakin’ Christmas.

2012 arrived and on one bright sunny day I got an email from my buddy: “I finally had a discussion with the boys in the band and the general  consensus was unhappiness with the musical direction that the project had taken on.” He went on to explain that originally they’d been more jazz/funk oriented and when I came in the direction shifted to more blues/rock. And though he still thought I was “a soulful singer and hope to work with you again in the studio or live,” no mention was made of the fact that he’d approved every song submitted, that no one indicated unhappiness with anything, no one had pushed for different material and not a mention was made of simply adding more jazz/funk into the mix (which he knew I could cover with aplomb). It appeared, for whatever reason and without preamble, I’d been summarily voted off the island.

When two of the players later contacted me it was made clear, independently and by both, that neither had been involved with any consensus or discussion; they were as surprised as I was. So it seems this was all on my buddy. Or not. Who knows? Smoke was being blown somewhere, I didn’t know where or from what direction, but I did know I had a #10 to add to the list:

10. “Yeah, you’re great and we’ve been friends for a billion years but I found a jazz singer I like better/I don’t want to do any blues/I would rather work with a guy singer/I’m too much of a chicken shit to be honest/Yes, I wasted your time/ oops, there goes the bus I’m throwing you under, thanks…bye!”

Yep. #10 takes the cake.

So that is my latest foray into rock & roll. Am I feeling a little bruised? A little sorry for myself? Yeah, a little. I didn’t deserve that. I’m a kick-ass singer, I showed up with a full plate of goods, I laughed at their jokes even when they were stupid, I was happy to carry equipment to the curb, I love swear words, I even brought mixed nuts. I know how to be a good Chick Singer.

But I tend to believe every story has a point, regardless of the tale. Even a sad and sorry debacle such as this comes with the gift of at least some learning. And in the good column?

1. My voice is still there. That was precious to discover. For whatever reason. Future reference. A sense of still having something I cherish. Whatever, it was good to know. I slay ‘em in the shower.

2. I was reminded of how much damn fun it is being in a good band with great players. No better fun…seriously.

3. I got to sing some of my favorite songs during rehearsals and that was an absolute blast. The audience was implied.

4. I can survive another creative disappointment. Good to know, particularly since that skill was hard-won. I recovered back then and I did not regress now. Look at me, Mommy, I’m all growed up!

So the moral of the story is: It’s life. And life is unpredictable. People can disappoint you. Projects can involve emotional whiplash. Not every dream comes true. There are some mountains high enough. I’m not fond of bad communicators. Rock & roll can still kick my ass. Harmony is like good frosting. The drummer makes the band. Mixed nuts are a fine snack.

And I’m doing OK…really. Thanks for asking.

All photographs courtesy of Lorraine Devon Wilke

The air was thick with tension, fierce whispers bounced between the huddled groups hunched in corners, scribbling on notepads, heads in hands; all waiting, waiting, waiting for some word, some sign. It was hard to believe they were there after so much anticipation, sitting now in churned anxiety, the future uncertain and no way of rushing it.  It was too much for one and tears began. Before long, others joined  (there were lots of girls). It was not a happy night for any of them and dread loomed.

Who could have expected this?  After weeks of discussion about what to do, tense and sometimes emotional decisions about who would do it, late night meetings about how it would be done, what order to do it in, what placement in the lineup, it all came down to this:

Would TOOU or Megan McDonough be singing “Leaving On a Jet Plane” at the Mudaco Talent Show at Crystal Lake Community High School in the year 1970?

This was not a minor question nor a minor event. Mudaco (Music Dance Comedy) was the premiere talent show of the school year and we, TOOU — The Organization of Us — viewed it as a pivotal performance to cap a year of folk singing success and that song, “Leaving On a Jet Plane,” was our signature number. To have it snatched from us moments into dress rehearsal was unfathomable. By a girl who no one in that school could possibly compete with, a girl who was a bona fide celebrity by virtue of having won the WLS “Big Break Contest” at 14, subsequently scoring a record deal, then just continuing on in high school as the gorgeous guitar slinging, singing/songwriting phenomenon with her soulful eyes and long, swinging brunette hair, and well…who could compete with that?

Not me. Not us. We were from a another planet. Like the “Glee” geeks without the choreography. The Organization of Us, or TOOU as we were acronymically known, was just a loose band of earnest teenagers originally gathered to folk-sing along to the new and somewhat controversial “folk Mass” about to debut at St. Thomas Church in Crystal Lake, Illinois.  It was the vaunted Summer of Love, 1968, with its ubiquitous mix of flower power, draft card drama and lentil-soup fueled protests against the Viet Nam war, and TOOU became safe harbor for those of us too young to fully embrace the hippie lifestyle but aware enough to rebel against…something. Launching the Folk Mass with its banging guitars, bouncing energy and unconventional repertoire would have to do. So while my oldest sister marched with political fervor in her John Lennon glasses and Janis hair, I spent that summer reveling in Summer Blonde, Sergio Mendes and my first boyfriend. But more than anything, that summer I fell in love with this eclectic group of singers and guitarists who met in the church basement to pound out folky versions of “Holy Holy Holy” and the “Our Father.” That boy I liked was one of the movers and shakers and I was lucky enough to have him and the vocal chops to move up quickly in the TOOU performing hierarchy. It was an unforgettable summer.

Our success with the folk Mass, which ultimately became the most attended service at the church, led to a burgeoning slate of outside engagements, not least of which was our first non-secular gig at some business or school event (can’t remember).  As if breaking out of church mode wasn’t heady enough, it was also our first paying gig…$50 to split between a group of 15 or so. And we were delighted. I think it was then that we realized we needed a name; we couldn’t just be the “St. Thomas folk singers.”  We needed a moniker, something with heft and buzz. It’s my recollection that I came up with the very era-centric name of The Organization of Us. Or maybe I just came up with the rather clumsy acronym TOOU, but whatever the history, the name stuck. Before long we were performing at parties, beach gatherings, other church events, anywhere we could squeeze into a corner or a picnic table and start singing. TOOU became a formidable performance behemoth that sometimes included up to 25 kids, many of whom played guitars, tambourines, penny whistles and various other percussion instruments and, quite frankly, we took up so much space we simply began to require bigger venues!  There were the performers from my family – sisters Peg, Mary and me and, in later incarnations, brothers Paul and Tom. There were the O’Reillys, 14 siblings, most of whom could sing like birds, all of whom were enthusiastic performers: Chris, Beau, Cecelie, Gloria, Dorothy, Beth Ann, Jamie, well…there were lots of them, some of whom joined later.  Then there was our guitarist extraordinaire, Pete Swenson, who we’d force to play “Classical Gas” as often as we could because he was simply brilliant at it. His sister Patti, Ken Polnow, Andi LeBlanc, Wendy Treptow, Karen Tefft, Tom Mooney, Joe Haase, Kent Tarpley; Cris Vosti. Occasionally Ed Csech would show up with his rocker edge and cigarette smoke and I’d sing songs like Simon and Garfunkle’s “The Boxer” with him. He played 12 string better than anyone I ever knew, then or now. People came and went (check the many names under these photos), it was an ever-fluid line-up, with some of us — the core group — always there to anchor the show. And with our excellent musicians, clear voices, and tight harmonies that stacked up high, sweet and all Phil Spectorish wall-of-sound, we were often very, very good.

Then came Mudaco, a kind of primitive “American Idol,” with the prestige and excitement to attract every star-struck, exceptionally talented, marginally talented, freakishly not talented but always entertaining high school ham to its roster and we were right there at the top of the list.  Also at the top of the list? Yep. Megan McDonough. I didn’t know Megan well; in fact, I barely knew her at all. She was royalty. You have to understand: WLS was the premiere rock station in Chicago with DJ Dick Biondi and his playlist of songs that made every kid within the broadcasting area dance around dining room tables, and that WLS had given Megan McDonough a prize. A big prize. She got a record deal with Wooden Nickel Records. I sang Peter, Paul and Mary songs in a church. She was quite literally of out of my league and I knew it. But it was high school and what she had in fame we had in sheer numbers and so we both carved our niche and peacefully coexisted in the fertile folk-rock zeitgeist of the times.  Until that Mudaco.

Here’s the thing about “Leaving On a Jet Plane.”  We sang it at every gig, we sang it with a variety of harmonic components, we sang it well. To this day, if I’m anywhere near my mother and a guitar, she begs me to sing it for her.  I usually do.  And that year at Mudaco, TOOU was to sing two songs: one I can’t remember; the other: “Leaving On a Jet Plane.” Our headliner. We rehearsed it ad nauseum, we honed it to a spit-shine finish and suddenly, late into dress rehearsal and one night before the big performance, we were informed that Megan McDonough, the big ticket item of the show, had decided to sing — you guessed it — “Leaving On a Jet Plane.” There are no words to describe our horror.  This was our song, our signature number, our literal musical identity as a group.  Why didn’t Megan just sing one of her hits?  One of her original songs? What the hell? THIS WAS HUGE.

Much tense negotiation ensued, lots of copious high-school-girl weeping, more mature discussion of what we could perform instead; the adjustment period was savage but we were trying to be troupers.  Then word came down: Megan was willing and prepared to sing a different song. “Leaving On a Jet Plane” was all ours. The erupting roar was shattering.  We were beyond grateful. We were emotionally exhausted, exhilarated, and we kicked “Leaving On a Jet Plane” ass. I don’t remember what Megan sang; it was probably on the radio before we got to the 10:00 Folk Mass that Sunday.

We went on to perform at the McHenry County Fair’s Talent Contest that summer, all funky cool in our god-awful 60′s patterned jump suits and jumpy-jittery stage moves (you should see the tape from which this picture, above, was pulled!) and on that stage, we were the stars…we snared first prize in front of a crowd of family, pig farmers, 4-H kids hugging their ribbons and our many fans from all over McHenry County. It was a seminal moment of sweet victory, one that is unmatched in its youthful, exuberant joy. For some of the group heading off to college, it was a last, perfect performance. For those of us remaining, it was a feat we would never replicate. Though we continued throughout the next year, it felt like the original incarnation had peaked and the younger kids that came in and took over ultimately formed their own version of TOOU.

When I left for college the next year I continued my folk-singing ways for a while, most notably with the folk/country trio of me, Fred Koller and my dear friend, Fred Rubin. It was with these fellows that I did my first recordings, cutting two memorable tracks with the titles “Rome Didn’t Fall In a Day” and “Our Love Is Just Like an Old Pinball Machine (the Kind That It Don’t Take Much To Tilt”)…I never did get copies, which is unfortunate; I’m sure they were impressive!

From these folky beginnings I embarked upon my enduring career as a singer over many decades (even now occasionally finding my way to a microphone), one that included musical theater, 50′s rock, 80′s new wave/soul and, more recently, singer/songwriter blues rock.  And it remains that TOOU will always be the irreplaceable starting point. The moment of realizing what it felt like to bond so deeply and musically with a group of like-minded artists. To experience the rush of opening my mouth and letting sound and breath and emotion pour from inside and be heard by a welcoming audience…it was, and is, a feeling like no other and one that compelled me for the next 30 years.

Many from the group went on to artistic careers, though I’ve lost track of most. Cris Vosti, now Cris Carroll, is a brilliant writer whose blog (http://cris-cafeimagine.blogspot.com/) is truly one of my favorite reads. Many of the O’Reilly clan continue in Chicago music, art and theater; Google any one of them and surely there’s a play being put up or a record being put out.  Jamie O’Reilly, singer extraordinaire, keeps me posted on events and her very active role in Chicago art and women’s issues (http://www.jamieoreilly.com/); I hear the talented Mr. Pete Swenson is still playing guitar with her and many others. Some of the members that followed, particularly my brothers Paul and Tom, have also gone on to amazing careers, Tom as a successful actor and director (“Everwood,” “Parenthood,” Brokedown Palace, etc. - www.tomamandes.com) and Paul, who teaches theater (Columbia College in Chicago), and writes and performs on stages all over the midwest. I don’t know what Ed Csech is doing these days but I hope he’s still playing that guitar. As for my college folk era mainstay, Fred Rubin, he had a tremendously successful career as a writer/producer of many hit TV series (“Family Matters,” “Diff’rent Strokes,” “Night Court,” “Step by Step,” etc.), some of which he cast me in and still pay (small) residuals.  He is now a respected speaker and screenwriting instructor at UCLA. With a killer sense of humor and a penchant for comedy, he makes frequent appearances on www.oldjewstellingjokes.com.

And Megan?  She became Megon (with an “o”) at some point and continues to have a stellar career as a songwriter, performer, actress, etc., appearing in venues around the country (though still very much based out of Chicago), both acting and singing.  Her lengthy discography, from that first Wooden Nickel album to her latest CD, lays proof to her enduring talent and I suggest you visit her site:  (www.megonmcdonough.com).

As for the events of that night, I’m probably making too much of it, maybe I don’t even have the facts straight. I doubt Megon remembers me or TOOU or the details of the drama and odds are, if she does, it holds no special memory, just a simple change to her set list. But it stuck with me. It was gracious. She was the famous girl who generously conceded on a song, the same girl who would later open up for John Denver and probably got to sing “Leaving On a Jet Plane” with the man who actually wrote it.  We’re both grown women now and have enjoyed our separate careers, but I see her as a compatriot of sorts, a fellow traveler on this journey we artists take.  It’s a good one, a hard one, sometimes one that turns out far different than we imagined, or ends too quickly, or leads us in directions we were not expecting to go, but it’s a journey that’s always an expression of some essential part of who we are…which is why we take it in the first place.  And when, on this twisting, turning road, we meet fellow travelers who touch a chord for one reason or another, it just seems worth a nod.

Photo credits:

Megon McDonough photos @ www.megonmegon.com

Collage photos with permission.

All other photos courtesy of Lorraine Devon Wilke