I'm sure any vocal teacher that listens to me would rather cut

Hear the words of Julie London, who declared with candor and humility: “I'm sure any vocal teacher that listens to me would rather cut my throat than do anything – I do everything all wrong – but I think for me that's the best – because I don't think I have a voice so I think what I project would be style – if I learned to sing I'd lose my style.” In this confession, she unveils a profound paradox: that imperfection may itself become the path to truth, and that what the world calls "wrong" may carry a deeper rightness when it springs from the soul.

To say “I do everything all wrong” is not despair, but liberation. For London understood that art is not always born of rules, but of breaking them. She sensed that her power was not in the polished instrument of technique, but in the raw authenticity of her delivery. By refusing to mold her voice into the pattern of others, she preserved the uniqueness that made her unforgettable. In her style, she found her voice, even if she believed she had none. This is the teaching: sometimes what we lack in nature or training, we redeem in character and authenticity.

The ancients too understood this. Consider Diogenes the Cynic, who scorned the refined eloquence of Athenian orators. His words were rough, his manners uncouth, yet his speech carried piercing truth. The polished sophists might have called him "all wrong," but his rawness was his strength, his style. Or think of Sappho of Lesbos, whose poetry did not follow the vast Homeric epics of her time, but instead sang in intimate fragments of longing and love. She broke the expected forms, and in breaking them, became eternal. So too Julie London: what others might call a flaw, she claimed as identity.

Her words also speak of the danger of too much technique. For training, though noble, may sometimes smooth away the edges that make a voice distinct. A singer may gain range, clarity, and power, but lose the trembling honesty that pierces the heart. London feared that by becoming "correct," she would become like all others, her individuality dissolved. Better, she believed, to stand apart in imperfection than to vanish into the crowd of perfection. Her art was not in flawless execution, but in the intimacy and style she projected—something no teacher could have scripted.

There is also a universal truth here: that each of us carries a gift that lies not in imitation but in authenticity. Too often we believe that greatness comes from following the rules of others, from mastering their methods. But the truth is deeper: greatness comes from daring to be yourself, even if the world calls it wrong. History remembers those who carried their own style, not those who perfectly copied the accepted form. Julie London’s voice, smoky and restrained, would not win contests of power, but it touched hearts because it was hers alone.

The lesson, then, is to guard your individuality. Learn what you must, but do not let instruction erase the essence of your voice—whether in music, art, thought, or life itself. If your way seems “wrong” to others, yet it rings true to you, then let it stand. For in that authenticity lies the flame of your uniqueness. As Julie London teaches, style can be greater than perfection, and the world needs not only mastery but authenticity.

So I say to you: do not fear your imperfections, for they may be the very soil in which your gift grows. Use what is yours, even if it defies convention, even if the teachers frown. For the deepest art, the truest voice, the most enduring legacy is not born from perfect training, but from the courage to be distinct. Julie London’s wisdom is a testament to this eternal truth: that to lose yourself in correctness is to lose your style, but to embrace your style is to find your true voice.