Eleven-year-old Becca Butler arrived at the theater early. She was wearing her civilian clothes. Plaid shirt. Jeans.
The band was doing a soundcheck when she walked in. I was behind the piano.
“Hi, Sean!” we could all could hear her say.
She was waving wildly. Namely, because this is a child who doesn’t do anything halfway. Even, for example, waving.
Becca used her white cane to navigate her way onto the stage, which was crowded with microphones and cables and degenerate musicians who, if it weren’t for our wives and our vans, would be—technically—homeless.
Becca is blind. And I am perpetually fascinated by her ability to move through unfamiliar environments using only her cane.
Sometimes, she even uses echo-location to gauge the the room she’s in.
“If she’s in in a new place,” her mother says, “sometimes Becca makes loud popping noises so she can hear the size of the room.”
The show tonight was in a big room. In Columbiana, Alabama, at the SONG Theater. These shows run all summer long, we feature music, humor, good friends, and
musical guests from all over the Southeast. Tonight, Becca was my special guest. She was going to sing with the band.
Because, you see, Becca is a singer.
Becca has many other talents, mind you. She is a math-whiz. She has a prodigious memory. She can use her iPhone better than any electronics engineer in the Continental United States. But whatever else she is, she is a singer.
Singers are unique human beings. They were put here to ease sadness. Even if only temporarily.
Becca stepped up to the mic. Her voice is rich. Pure. She has perfect pitch. When she sings, you feel it. Not in your ears. But other places. Like your chest. And behind your eyes. Becca’s singing causes noses to run.
“She’s been singing ever since she started talking,” says her mother, Mina Butler.
Then, her mother…