Sabrina Imbler

Not hitting all the notes or nailing a vocal run, but giving yourself permission to be another person, another voice, just for the night. In these rooms, I now workshop future versions of myself. I sing low. I swagger. I'm learning how to tame a voice that is still unfamiliar, yet inconceivably my own. I've started singing pop songs an octave down.

Kylie Minogue, if she were a baritone, that I have always avoided, scared off by a feminine register that seemed out of reach. I still go back, sometimes the only person in the room without a drink in hand. Even if I only manage to sway in the back of a room as someone else wails into the mic, I'll sing along, my voice breaking, croaking, and if the song is good enough, screaming.

Kylie Minogue, if she were a baritone, that I have always avoided, scared off by a feminine register that seemed out of reach. I still go back, sometimes the only person in the room without a drink in hand. Even if I only manage to sway in the back of a room as someone else wails into the mic, I'll sing along, my voice breaking, croaking, and if the song is good enough, screaming.

Kylie Minogue, if she were a baritone, that I have always avoided, scared off by a feminine register that seemed out of reach. I still go back, sometimes the only person in the room without a drink in hand. Even if I only manage to sway in the back of a room as someone else wails into the mic, I'll sing along, my voice breaking, croaking, and if the song is good enough, screaming.

I sing until, at the end of the night, I lose my voice. But now I trust it to return.

I sing until, at the end of the night, I lose my voice. But now I trust it to return.

I sing until, at the end of the night, I lose my voice. But now I trust it to return.