It was 1996 and I was in a nightclub in Tokyo. I was 26 and had been living and working in Japan for three years. I was dancing, along with my friends, to the thump of hypnotic house music. Next to me, an older Japanese man wearing glasses moved closer. Dressed in a dark blue suit, the attire of a “salaryman”, he looked out of place. He puffed on a cigarette as he tapped me on the shoulder. “You look like you can sing,” he shouted over the music. Why would he think that, I wondered. Because I am Black, something of a rarity in Japan? Did he also presume I had natural rhythm and could run a speedy 100-metre dash? I told him I taught English in a language school, but he pressed a crisp meishi (business card) into my hand and said: “I’m a talent scout for a music label and you look like you can sing. Call me.”
I wasn’t sure that I could sing. Like most people, I was partial to belting out a show tune in the shower and, given that I lived in Japan, I sang at karaoke. I could hold a tune, but I was no Whitney. Still, I was curious, so I decided to call.
‘I spent a rainy afternoon marvelling at the expressive freedom in my voice’ … Camilla Balshaw in March. Photograph: Courtesy of Camilla Balshaw
A few months later, I was in a recording studio in Tokyo, clutching a microphone. Although I wrote the lyrics to the music, which was composed by a Canadian producer, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was out of my depth. My trip-hop debut landed in Tower Records’ flagship store in Shibuya in the summer of 1997. Despite the glamour of being able to secure a table in the city’s hottest restaurants, performing the odd gig and signing autographs (I recorded my CD under my Yoruba Nigerian middle name, Adebisi, rather than my first name), the adrenaline rush soon wore off and doubt crept in.
My album wasn’t exactly lighting up the charts and the royalties were not flowing. I started to feel like an impostor. I met other singers in Tokyo who had slogged for years on the circuit hoping to catch a break. How could I call myself a singer? I had got there by luck: I was in the right place at the right time, but I wasn’t exceptionally talented.
Little wonder my “singing career” was over before it started. In 1998, I returned to my day job teaching English and my producer found another singer, a woman with a voice like an angel.
‘I was no longer a lone voice singing in a stuffy recording studio’ … rehearsing with the Big Heart and Soul choir. Photograph: Courtesy of Camilla Balshaw
After five years of living in Tokyo, I felt it was time to return to the UK. I left for London in the winter of 1999, a couple of months before I hit 30. By 2011, I was living in rural Norfolk and, apart from my family and a few friends, no one knew about my moment in the spotlight. I held on to a cardboard box of Japanese memorabilia – the sole reminder of my previous life – but I was never tempted to listen to the album I had made; I felt embarrassed by it.
Then, in the spring of 2022, I started writing my memoir, reflecting on aspects of my life that I had forgotten – or buried. For the first time in more than 25 years, I listened to my album, not once, but several times. I spent a rainy afternoon marvelling at the expressive freedom in my voice and began to wonder if I could find joy in singing again.
I joined the Big Heart and Soul choir in Norfolk on a cold, drizzly night in January 2025. I slipped quietly into the hall, keeping on my hat and coat, and sat with a gaggle of women clutching song sheets. “Welcome to the sopranos,” one of them said, with a wry smile. “Join in when you feel ready,” said the person next to me.
The emotion, depth and beauty of their singing brought tears to my eyes. Slowly, I began to join in
I didn’t open my mouth. If I wanted to sing again, was it really as part of a rural community choir? I gripped my lyric sheet, biting my lip. Then, as I listened, the choir’s harmonies soared and the hairs on my forearms stood up. The emotion, depth and beauty of their singing brought tears to my eyes. Slowly, I began to join in, my voice tentative at first, then louder. I was no longer a lone voice singing into a microphone in a stuffy recording studio in Tokyo; I was part of a larger, collaborative sound. In that moment, decades of feeling like a fraud lifted. The harmonies we created were so jubilant and full of life that I sang with a permanent grin.
When the class ended, one of the choir members asked if I had sung before. I paused before telling her the truth – about the stranger in the nightclub, the album in Tokyo and how I had lost confidence in my voice. “So, you were big in Japan,” she deadpanned. I smiled.
After that, there was no stopping me. My singing voice was no longer hidden in a box of memorabilia; I sang whenever possible, belting out cheesy show tunes in the shower and singing along to my own record in the car. Now, if I hear a song I like, it doesn’t matter if I only vaguely know the words; I sing along anyway. Joining my local choir made me feel unbound, like a baby learning to walk, stumbling into a playground of endless vocal adventures. I may not be Whitney, but, really, who is?
Named: A Story of Names and Reclaiming Who We Are by Camilla Balshaw is out now (Bedford Square, £18.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply