The Belters

There are some artists, usually female and robust, that I buy exclusively so that I can sing along to their music while driving in my car.

The attraction is not that I particularly care for their lyrics. And the attraction is not that I like their sound. Usually, I find the subject matter insipid and the instrumental backing to be washed out and uninspired. (Oh no! He broke my heart and I had to leave him to the sound of righteous piano and gentle guitars! And if he ever comes near me again, we might have to get some bass in this piece!)

 No, the attraction is that I am quite jealous of these singers' vocal abilities and wish to improve my own by seeing if I can hit the same notes and sustain them for the same unholy number of beats and make it sound somewhat passable.

Of course, it probably sounds more like I'm repeatedly stabbing a cat with a sharpened shard of bone than like I'm the next Sara Bareilles, but back off. I have the right to sound awful while driving in my car, regardless of whoever else is with me!

Over the past years, I have accumulated quite a few musical selections by these "Belters." My iPod, in addition to my beloved Anberlin and Fall Out Boy, now contains albums by divas whose main selling points are their high notes, such as Kelly Clarkson, Adele, Colbie Caillat, and Brandi Carlile. Indeed, my  library is inundated with throaty voices and subjects I just don't care about.

But that's okay. It's not like I'm actually repeatedly shanking a helpless kitten. It's only my passengers' ears.