My Cross to Bear by Gregg Allman

terrible—I don’t know, you might not think it’s terrible, but I do. I’ve never played it for anybody.
    But I stuck it out. And the more I did, the more I learned. Early on, Floyd gave me a tip about singing that I later heard from some other people: don’t sing from your chest. If I sang more than a couple of songs, my voice would be gone, because I was singing from my chest. You don’t want to do that, because then you’re blowing wind past your vocal cords, and they’ll get pretty tattered if you keep doing that.
    Floyd pulled me over to the side and said, “Listen, Gregory. If I may, can I give you a little word of advice? Let’s say I was going to count to three, and haul and hit you in the stomach as hard as I could. What would you do?”
    I told him, “I’d tighten up my tummy.”
    He put my hand on my stomach and said, “You see how hard that is? That’s where you sing from. That’s where the power comes from. When you know you’re going to scream, you lay your head back, which spreads your vocal cords real wide, and when the scream comes out, it barely nicks your vocal cords. You don’t want to do too much of that, because there’s soft, tender meat down there.”
    It took me forever to figure it out. Floyd said, “You’ll get it when you don’t think about it,” but I kept thinking about it and thinking about it. I don’t know what day it happened, but once I got it, then I didn’t think about it. Now I don’t know how to do it any other way. Starting then, many nights I’d be coming off the stage and all the band, my brother especially, started saying, “Man, you’re sounding better every night.” Of course, I didn’t believe them.
    Coming up, I sang a lot of Otis Redding, a little James Brown. That would always tear my throat up. You have to find out your range, so you won’t get up there and encounter a note that there ain’t no way in hell you’re gonna hit. You know to lower the key or change the phrasing. I learned all about phrasing.
    The more different songs I tried, the more I learned, and I must say I had some great teachers. Half of them didn’t know they were teaching me. I would just go somewhere and stand and watch. I’d be so focused, the ice in my drink would melt.
    “Little Milton” Campbell had the strongest set of pipes I ever heard on a human being. That man inspired me all my life to get my voice crisper, get my diaphragm harder, use less air, and just spit it out. He taught me to be absolutely sure of every note you hit, and to hit it solid. Little Milton taught me to know what you’re going to sing, to know what ladder you’re going to climb, and to know how many turns it’s going to take. I learned from him to understand which part needs to be soft and which part needs to be delivered with force, what I call “throat busters.” On those, you just harden up your tummy, and you let that boy out real quick, you kinda let it escape. Milton could do that better than anybody, and his voice was strong as ever, right up until the day he passed.
    I had a lot of respect for my throat and my ears, although I did smoke cigarettes. I used earplugs, I drank hot tea and honey, I gargled in the shower, and I let the hot water run down my throat. But the one thing that brings your throat back completely is sleep—lovely, peaceful sleep, and lots of it.
    I think I’m singing better than ever, but I can’t do as much as I used to. I can’t sing as long and as hard, song after song. Still, when we play our annual shows at the Beacon Theatre in New York City every year, I get stronger as the run goes on. I’m not sure why that is, but I think opening night is so tough on my voice because I’m so nervous. It’s opening night, and you’ve got those butterflies.
    T HE E SCORTS WAS OUR FIRST REAL BAND . W E DID A WHOLE BUNCH of old R&B love songs, stuff like “Pretty Woman,” “I’ve Been Trying,” “Hi-Heel Sneakers,” and “You’ve Lost That Lovin’