The Impossible Favourite.

How does one choose a favourite voice?

This was the challenge posed to me by Kendall Defoe, one of the winners of a writing competition I hosted.

His suggestion? “Write about your favorite vocalist of all time.” Simple, on the surface. A prompt that seems to beckon a name—just one—and let the tribute begin.

But the truth is: I can’t.

There isn’t a single voice I love above all others. There isn’t one tone, one vibrato, one falsetto or rasp that can carry all the weight of what I associate with song. To choose just one would be to carve out one thread from a tapestry that’s only beautiful because of how the threads are knotted together.

Let me show you what I mean.



I Really Like Bob Marley’s Raspy, Tone in "Natural Mystic".

When Bob Marley sings, it isn’t just a voice; it’s a vision. His sound is like smoke curling through history, like a breeze from somewhere warm and wise. That rasp—worn and golden—is the feeling of sun on your back when your heart is weary. It's prophetic. Raw. Unapologetically rooted.

When I hear “Natural Mystic”, I don’t just listen. I receive. A voice like that isn’t asking to be liked; it’s not asking to be understood. It is not asking for anything. It just is. Mysterious.


I Really Like Whitney Houston’s " I will always love You."

And then there’s Whitney, who didn’t just sing notes—she made them take flight. “I Will Always Love You” isn’t a breakup ballad; it’s a resurrection. Every modulation, every breathless climb to the chorus is a full-body ache. Her voice was range and restraint, gospel and glamour, agony and divinity.

Whitney's vocals feel like open sky. And some days, that’s the voice I need.

I think James Blake sounds phenomenal in "Retrograde"

James Blake’s “Retrograde” is what loneliness sounds like when it sings in a minor key. His falsetto flickers, like it’s afraid of its own light. But that trembling is what makes it holy.

His voice doesn’t fill the room. It leaves space in it.

That space is where memory sits. Where longing lingers. Where I remember something I didn’t know I forgot.

And because this one is my daddy's welcome home song to Heaven.

Brandon Lake in “Graves Into Gardens” sings like he’s tearing open something buried deep—not just in himself, but in me. His voice is gravel and flame, pouring over lyrics like a psalm written in storm water. It’s the voice of belief that’s been broken and rebuilt.

A declaration. A defiance. A testimony.

And here is a recent voice that powerfully resonates with me.

I Love the Voices That Aren’t Famous.

I love the way my brother McAnthony and his wife sound when they sing Who Do You See? to each other in harmonies only two hearts in covenant can create.

It’s not just pretty—it’s personal.

Their voices aren't chasing perfection. They’re wrapped around meaning.

And when I get voice notes from my mom and dad—sometimes humming, sometimes cracking with age or memory—it feels like childhood in audio form. It's not for Spotify. It's for my soul.


I Love My Twin’s Quiet Devotion.

When my twin brother sends me his homemade jam sessions—just him and his guitar, singing in the softness of prayer—it breaks me. There’s no audience in mind. No studio polish. Just him and God.

It reminds me that some of the most powerful vocals are whispered, not belted. Offered, not performed.


I Love the Vocals of Silence.

Yes. Even silence sings to me.

The silence between verses. The pause before the downbeat. The breath before the first note. The held stillness at the end of a song that you don’t want to end.

Silence has a voice too. And sometimes, that’s the one I crave most.


So what does this all mean?

It means I don’t have a favorite vocalist of all time. I have a thousand. I have a spectrum of sounds that map the contours of my memory, my emotions, my spirit. Each voice I love holds a different part of me. They aren't competing. They're composing something bigger together.

To choose one would be to silence the rest. And I can’t do that.