Long Hair, Betrayal, and The Book That Changed Everything.
I started singing after I quit college for a band—and then went back to college when that didn’t work out the way I thought it would. I was sitting in an Organic Chemistry class, part of my Molecular Biology degree, dripping chemicals into a beaker and thinking, “Is this really what I’m going to do?” So I left and joined a rock band my friend had started.
They were serious—the kind of serious that means you’re already imagining the future. What I didn’t understand yet is that people like that tend to judge you based on your current ability—and themselves based on their future potential. That’s where things broke.
They decided they were “ready.” I wasn’t. So they kicked me out.
The irony is that it wasn’t even about the original music—I nailed that. It was the covers. Rush. Kiss. High voice material. I’m a baritone. Back then, a higher lyric baritone. I could hit the notes—but I couldn’t live there. Not for long. That was the definition of “ready.”
That moment stuck with me, and it pushed me into something better.
I went back to school—this time for music. In the first two weeks, I fixed the issue that got me kicked out. I also learned something more important: it wasn’t just about hitting notes—it was about what the voice can sustain.
My first teacher gave me something invaluable—confidence, connection, and the sense that I belonged in this. But something still felt off.
I was learning everything—repertoire, theory, ear training, piano—but my voice didn’t feel like mine anymore. So I went to the library. I read everything I could find—voice science, anatomy, speech, musicianship.
Eventually I found the book that changed everything: Dynamic Singing by Louis Bachner.
That’s where the shift happened.
Instead of trying to make the voice do something, I learned that the real work is removing what’s in the way. Once you see that, you can’t unsee it.
That idea stayed with me. And over time, it led to a conclusion I didn’t expect: a large portion of vocal instruction is built on ideas that don’t actually help the voice function the way it’s built.
Not because people don’t care—but because they’re trying to make the voice do something, instead of removing what’s in the way.
The more I worked, the clearer something else became: the human voice isn’t something we construct—it’s something we reveal. Most people don’t need to be taught how to sing from the ground up. They need help getting back to something that was already there.
So I started building something different.
I combined what I knew from biology with what I was learning about the voice. I tested it on myself, then on students. Over time, a process emerged—not tricks, not shapes, not forcing sound, but a method that works with the voice instead of against it.
More importantly, it’s a method that feels right when you do it.
As one of my early students put it:
< “It’s like my voice—but richer and fuller.”
That’s the direction this has been going ever since.
This isn’t a finished system. It’s a living one.
But the foundation is simple:
Remove what’s in the way.
Let the voice organize itself.
Build something that actually works.
-Shawn Earl Patterson