When Songs Disappear Chapter 2: A Dream Breathes Again

This is the second chapter of my book: When Songs Disappear. Please read or listen to an audio version, with subtitles, here.

If you haven’t yet, please read or listen to chapter one.

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The process to become a nation’s idol is similar in every country that is a part of the franchise branded with the famous “American Idol” logo—a bright blue oblong circle with the words radiating, as if formed into a white neon sign.

This title didn’t make sense in the Nordic Estonian language. Their version retained the bright blue oval and glowing words, but perhaps their word for “idol” was reserved for statues decorating Hindu temples. They renamed the show “Estonia’s Search for a Super Star.” Star. God once met me under the stars—perhaps another sign the stage was meant to be mine.

After taking a two-hour bus ride to the southern college town of Tartu, I stood in line to register myself as one of Estonia’s possible upcoming celebrities. I leaned over a make-shift registration table in the center of a shopping mall, surrounded by a group of hopeful musicians—all twenty years younger than me—and shame began to cloud my bright rays.

To my left was a nineteen-year-old woman; long blonde hair professionally blown straight and free of any stray wisp. Her Levi black jeans still boasted a size 26 waist. Her boobs, possibly enhanced, took at least part of the spotlight her voice demanded. She deserved to be here; I did not.

To my right, stood a six foot four-inch-tall man in his twenties. He wore a tan fedora, but what laid beneath the hat was even more impressive—his brown hair was tamed into a three-inch-high wave, perfectly designed to withstand both wind, ice, and any hat thanks to a layer of pricey hair gel. A guitar was slung over his shoulder. He strummed lightly and sang to either warm up his voice or to intimidate those around him.

Who did I think I was? Old and shriveled; stuffing myself into a black dress that hid the proof that my stomach had already been twice stretched beyond its limits. I was no better than those cougars—caking on foundation, mascara and wearing leopard print to fool young men that they still got game. Imposters are usually easy to spot, and I was one of them.

When I was called before the panel of the show’s producers to audition, it was without fanfare. They sat in a small office in an upper corner of the mall. There was one camera, a plastic table unfolded with three producers, all my age, seated. Tablets of paper, prepared to scrawl a big yes or no next to each person’s name, rested in front of them. They were the gatekeepers—the ones who decided if you were either good enough or embarrassing enough to sing in front of the celebrity judges.

I look like a fool. I should have done this is my twenties. I couldn’t do this in my twenties. Armenia took this from me. I’m just an idiot chasing a teenage dream.

I stood only a few feet in front of their table; the small office’s wall firmly planted behind my back. There was little small talk, only the tapping of their pens against plastic tabletop as they waited for their thousandth person to sing. I took one of those deep, grounded breaths I trained for years to master and began to sing one of Adele’s famous lyrics:

I can't keep up with your turning tables

Under your thumb, I can't breathe
So I won't let you close enough to hurt me

No, I won't ask you, you to just desert me
I can't give you, what you think you gave me

It's time to say goodbye to turning tables

To turning tables

I don’t know why I chose that song as my last chance at an old dream. It wasn’t my favorite song; well-rehearsed in showers or on long drives alone. But the words felt right. My dress had no hint of leopard print, but I still tried to get a second chance at the love of my youth. I was ready to turn the tables.

As I sang, the typical Estonian solemnness disintegrated when the judges smiled. They asked to hear one more song.

Amazing Grace,

How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost,

but now am found

T'was blind but now I see

The two songs sang out the epic battle that had seethed in my personal grave for years. I felt a constant pull to run away from the life that had cost me too much. But every online search to buy a one-way ticket home to America was met with something deep in the roots of my being—the whisper of God’s grace to trust Him and stay. I wanted to be found in more ways than one. Would the producers give me a chance?

The answer was a definite yes. The judges invited me to compete in the next round—a chance to sing for the Estonian celebrity judges on national television.

I’ve always been scared to let myself live in the moment—afraid that my dissatisfied infant or stubborn toddler self could re-emerge without notice. After receiving the yes I had waited decades for, I calmly took the invitation paper and exited the room with the slightest smile on my lips. There were a few moments of satisfaction. My thirty-seven-year-old body and voice could still earn me a place in front of the camera! But doubts quickly snuffed out any ounce of joy.

Nick’s words and my inner voice began to envision a different scenario. Did they advance me due to my voice or because I was a story of interest to entice viewership? Do Estonians secretly love to see a middle-aged woman, from the mighty nation of America, fail? Laugh at someone trying to hold on to a dream that only fits into younger hands—ones too pristine to have callouses or bulging veins?

The round in front of the celebrity judges was scheduled to be at Tallinn’s Music Conservatory a few weeks later. The tall, square building, covered in ivory stucco and black-framed windows, stood a street’s width away from my apartment’s view. Our fifth-floor home office looked down into the tall windows that formed the walls of the Academy’s practice rooms.

These practice rooms were five-star hotels compared to the rooms my college provided—small windowless cubicles; walls covered in stapled brown and burgundy sack cloth above sound proofing foam. The old pianos and well-trampled carpets, constantly damp from the melted snow of Minnesota boots, reassured you were never alone. Mildew was your constant companion; listening to make sure you did, indeed, hit that high note with the accuracy your vocal coach prescribed.

Despite the nice practice rooms at Tallinn’s Academy of Music, I pitied each person I saw practicing. I once was one of them—waking up early to cram in another hour of Bach on the piano or trying to get my voice to sustain the dreaded German umlaut correctly at midnight.

I knew what awaited them on the other side—more critique, more comparison with the music department’s favorites; the stomach enflamed before every performance; the feeling that no matter how much you whip your voice or instrument into submission, it will never be enough. Through those windows, I was witnessing my story—the growth of a hatred of what you once loved most; a belief you will never be heard.

But now was my time. I was no longer trapped in the reek of Minnesota practice rooms. I was assigned a stage, a chance to sing to a broad audience between commercials of famous vodka brands imported from Russia.

The producers requested that I take videos of myself preparing at home; walking from my front door, around the corner, to the main entrance of the Academy. My entire family needed to be on set for my audition. Perhaps if we were in America, Nick and the kids would don “Team Olivia” shirts in my favorite shade of teal and stand ready to jump and cheer. But this was Estonia; very few allow themselves to be seen screaming for joy.

I needed to shave at least five to seven years off my life to compete against young Estonians with a long future ahead of them. Could I convince the public I was only thirty and still had the possibility of a music career?

I straightened my hair to give even the best blonde Estonian a run for her money. I made sure my concealer was properly placed, but still foundation-free to prove that I was no cougar trying to hide craters and wrinkles. My tight skinny jeans still fit, and I wore a black tank top, decorated with brass flat octagon studs along the collar and curved bottom.

Following the advice of a free beauty consultant who once told me I should always emphasize my figure 8 by cinching my waist, my black leather-plated belt revealed that my pregnancies hadn’t taken everything from me. Ankle boots with a wooden chunky heel gave my short 5 feet four-inch frame the illusion of being a bit taller, able to hold my own in the land of Viking giants.

In the waiting area outside the set, we watched those go before me to perform. Some jumped up and down—a last minute attempt to release nervous energy. One of the perfect blondes did vocal trills in the lobby, facing the wall. She nestled close to the lone potted plant standing in the corner, hoping it would provide some sort of Zen comfort instead of performing the task it was purchased for—adding a hint of green to the grey cement walls.

When the stage set’s doors opened, I joined other contestants to sneak a glimpse of our future. Inside stood multiple top notch cameras, some on booms flying and rotating in the air. The stage was illuminated with several racks of strategically placed professional lights—what every celebrity needs to prove that they are one of the rare humans free of dark, puffy under eye circles. The producers and the crew stood on the outskirts of the room, headsets on, microphones waiting for their direction.

The show’s host was a former contestant in his twenties. He, with his brown hair also molded into the popular concrete wave, guarded the set’s entrance. Much taller and thinner than America’s Ryan Seacrest, he wore a shiny blue suit and enough tan- colored TV makeup to convince the audience at home that he had just returned from a long vacation near the equator.

“So, are you nervous?” He asked in Estonian as the cameras gathered near; also getting footage of my young daughter, Ava, doing the forbidden—climbing a radiator in the corner of the room.

My heartbeat left its place deep in my chest and worked its way into my throat. My tongue lost is elasticity with the racing pulse in my neck. I answered in Estonian, but my tongue-tied English accent made my words only semi-comprehensible. He smiled at the camera and turned me to pose for the photographer. His long arm encircled me like an old friend, and he opened the doors to usher me onto the sound stage where the celebrity judges waited; illuminated like angels.

The only person older than me in the room was one of the judges—a famous concert pianist and curmudgeon in his sixties. He completed the picture of an aging artist—thinning hair, dyed Trump-orange; kept long and disheveled to confuse any onlookers about the depth of his balding hairline. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses completed his look.

The second judge was a handsome man, two years younger than me. He had started his career as a rock musician; one of the few musicians in Estonia to have won the continent’s main music competition, Eurovision. Muscular and with a few well-placed moles on his face; the rest of his body was covered in tattoos. His eyes were the color of the sea. And despite our closeness in age, his propensity to date women nearly two decades younger guaranteed that I was not going to receive any favors.

The final judge was a woman who first gained her fame as a four-year-old performer, singing folk songs on Estonian national television. I liked her. She seemed quiet and kind. She had long brown hair and like me, and instead of having the small button nose inherited throughout Scandinavia, her nose was long and had the sort of strong bridge that songs can easily walk upon and fly.

Of all three, she seemed the most real to me. It helped that I once saw her at my favorite Italian restaurant, down the street, make-up free, in grey sweats and picking up takeout with a dog in tow. Italian food, dogs, and athleisure wear have always had my heart.

I had an advantage over my Estonian competitors. I didn’t grow up seeing these celebrities perform in the largest concert halls or for Christmas TV specials. I had no form of adoration built up through the years. My girlfriends and I never made up dance moves to their most popular songs; no posters pinned up above my teenage bed. For me, they did not walk on water. They were strangers.

The heels of my black boots dug into the show’s blue logo plastered on the floor. After navigating a few questions in Estonian, I began to sing about turning tables as Nick and the kids watched through a screen in the lobby.

Nick worried and said I sounded nervous. The kids stood, photographers flashing shots, as they watched me pursue a dream. The judges gave advice in Estonian. Too overwhelmed to comprehend much, I gave my well-tamed smile as they handed me the magical golden ticket to compete in their coveted theater (a.k.a. Hollywood) round.

I exited the room. Nick and my son, Oliver, beamed. Ava resumed her quest to conquer the radiator. I posed again, in front of the famous blue and white emblem. My nails, painted white, grasped the yellow cardboard, almost shining as much as my smile. That picture becomes the piece of me that is their property; posted on the official fan page. I am one of 75 finalists, gathered from all over Estonia, to compete for the title of super star.

Two weeks were given as preparation for the theater round. I rehearsed in our office overlooking the shiny practice rooms. My voice reverberated off the walls lined with red bricks, no longer trapped like those students, rehearsing across the street in cages.

I now had different standards. I wasn’t going to be judged on how my voice operatically conquered some run in Handel. I was required to learn Alicia Key’s song, “This Girl is on Fire,” and a smooth Estonian song about one of the nation’s greatest resources—snow.

Each finalist was allowed to choose one song to perform on the theater’s stage. I prepared a piece by the rebel singer with a bleached mohawk, Pink. An official email relayed the day and time a large tour bus would drive me to a top-secret location—filled with the same celebrity judges, an even larger sound stage and more cameras.

I was now like those talented contestants chosen for American Idol. It was no longer 2003. I wasn’t sitting on a couch and, between bites of chips and salsa, dreaming about a chance to sing on the stage.

I had finally proven I was good enough to compete in the Hollywood round.

I had turned the tables.