Just A Bunch Of Notes

   I never excelled at Math.  That’s probably one reason I’m not a musical prodigy.  Other reasons were my unusual sense of pitch, a psychologically inferior voice, rhythm good for only one or two measures, a fear of performance, and the long, pointing finger of Miss Dewey, though she did point the way to the future.

   In music class, this finger would command me to sing and, in terrified response, I would expressively mouth the words and close my eyes in rapture.  She would say, “Ted, I can’t hear you.”  My classmates thought this was very funny. One day, toward the end of the school year, she pointed and I went through my motions.  When I was finished, she said, in her musical voice, “Ted, that was lovely.”  She meant it and that small bit of musical appreciation freed me from shyness and allowed me to turn up my volume, much to the amusement of the rest of the world. 

The Notes.

   But back to Mathematics.  I always hated fractions and there they were at the beginning of each score.  3/4.  Why write the whole thing if you’re openly going to play three-quarters of it?  Likewise, the notes.  Half, quarter, sixteenths.  It was complicated.  As a result, I was drawn to stories of wonderful musicians who couldn’t read music – Erroll Garner, Jerry Lewis, Brittany Spears.

   The notes are relative to each other and, with much experimentation; I might be able to sound them out, if I’ve heard the song before or if someone is there with me who knows it.  But there exist modes, keys, tempos, etc. which can really throw you off.  Some notes are diminished and some are augmented.  Every good boy does fine.  That is called a mnemonic.  What about the girls?  Every good babe does fine?  Is that any solution?  And the spaces – I can’t even remember that; I’m still thinking about the girls.  The notes all look the same to me, a monotone.

With music so universal and fundamental, it’s funny that it is not taught to all children.  But then, it is common knowledge that music is subversive and bad for discipline.  It’s not Success, Hard Work, and Rock and Roll; it’s Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll.

Music Appreciation.

   Appreciating music is another thing entirely.  Fortunately, whether one can read the notes or know what time it is or know if a falling fifth is heard in the forest matters little.  Music is democratic.  It exists for all and we all have ears to hear with, if we so desire.

   Where did it come from?  Is it part of nature?  Bird songs?  The wind in the pines?  The roar of the river?  The hum of a hot afternoon?  How do you explain James Brown or the beautiful music of Mantovani?  Where is the origin in nature for a backbeat?  Maybe music does not originate in Nature, but in our human nature.  Back at the beginning of time when man first struggled upright, who knows if the reason for this evolutionary breakthrough was not his primitive, yet hip, need to snap his or her fingers?

   It could be one of those needs so basic as to be a requirement for being human.  Like getting high or wanting to drive a car or dreaming.  In fact, the need for music and the need for dreaming are very similar.  We look to both, whether we are conscious of it or no, for solace, interpretation of information, and hope.  The amazing thing is that they are both there waiting for us.  A means of determining meaning and providing continuation.  A transition that connects yesterday to Today to Tomorrow.  All we need to do is to provide our attention.  The more we listen, the more we begin to understand and appreciate.  Some of us have to take classes and be instructed in this subject of music appreciation.  Some of us are trained by our parents with lullabies, songs in the car, Christmas carols.

   Like everything else, this ability to appreciate and even to make crude examples of music is something that is inherent in every person.  It makes me happy to think of our world as inhabited by musicians, all trying to find their own song and trying to sing along with each other.

   As the world shrinks, it also expands.  The songs from the other side of the world are brought to us and our repertoire grows.  Our ears grow larger.  Our brains are on fire with sound.  An infinite amount of music existing in a finite body.  Gives you Goosebumps just to think of it.  Fats domino next to Beethoven on the piano bench, laughing.  King Sunny Ade trading licks with Segovia.  Kids on the street, with sticks, accompanying Gabby Pahanui.  Voices around the campfire, soothing a fear of darkness and the end of day.

The Birth of Romanticism.

   My first musical memory is of my mother singing me to sleep.  She’d sing:

Hush little baby

Oh pal ‘o mine

Sleep for us both

Would be so fine

As far back as I can remember, I had a radio next to my bed.  It looked like this:

   This radio provided me with the imaginary necessities of childhood.  Rock and Roll, or what passed for it, on WDGY and, at night, in the summer, baseball games from across town.  I reenacted every play and every song in my mind.  I’d slide into second and then walk my baby back home.  Late at night, I’d hear stations from far away swoop into coherence on the little speakers and tell me about Tulsa or some other place in Louisiana.  It was like communicating with the aliens.  It was so romantic.

   Assisting at the birth of my romanticism and, perhaps, even responsible for it, was Marty Robbins.  At the tender age of six, I found myself in El Paso, at Rosa’s Cantina, my heart on fire with a love doomed from beginning to end.  I escaped from trouble only to find that I could not remain separated from my love.  To die in her arms, with her face as the last thing I see was not only worth it, but the only way to go.  There seemed to be a lot of those songs back then.  Running Bear loved Little White Dove, with a love big as the sky.  Running Bear loved Little White Dove, with a love that couldn’t die.  Powerful stuff for a six-year-old.  Life was a holiday on Primrose Lane.  It was poetry in motion and Devil or Angel, Dear, whichever you are, I love you, I love you, I, I, I laa love you.  A bit confusing for a young and impressionable guy like myself.

  I watched Tennessee Ernie Ford sing about someone being in the kitchen with Dinah.  Now, that was romantic.  For years, I thought he meant Dinah Shore and I always wondered who was in the kitchen with her.

My First Symphony.

   When I was a young schoolboy, I took a bus with my fellow students to Northrup Auditorium.  I was excited because I thought this meant we were going to the girl’s school across town.  What could have been grave disappointment turned out to be the start of my first symphony. 

   Why anyone thought it was a good idea to bring busfuls of kids on doughnuts to hear Brahms is beyond me.  We climbed over the red velvet seats.  We threw our programs off the balcony.  We competed to see who could make the most repulsive noise, the face that would drive us to tears of laughter.  A long way from Brahms at his table, late at night, beside a candle.

   I learned a valuable lesson that day.  As the lights went down, the hall went relatively silent and the curtains parted on a beautiful scene of black and white.  The conductor walked out from the wings, acknowledged our presence by laughing, and swung his baton into action.  The sound of all that black and white, playing in harmony, pushed me back in my chair.  It was beautiful.  I tried to make a connection between these people on the stage in front of me, with those who played in Alexander’s Ragtime Band on the little yellow records I had at home.  Could it be possible that these were the same guys?  IT was an exciting thought.

   On the way back to school, some of us sat quiet and reflective in our vinyl seats, heads leaning against the window, looking at a landscape much changed by the sounds of the notes in our heads.

Carrying A Tune.  (What a burden.)

One of the things I like best about music is that its intent can overcome its content.  I’m in my car and I’m thinking of someone close to my heart.  I break into song –

You are so beautiful

I can’t help

Falling in love with you

   Now, strictly speaking, my voice is unlike any other voice.  The fact that each voice is different and distinct, if not always on key, is an amazing thing.  Even Big Al, who sang You’re So Beautiful on the record, is not really on key.  And, he’s a professional.  But the thing that makes it beautiful is his intent, his sincerity.  His heart is on his sleeve.  You can’t criticize a guy like that, unless you are heartless yourself.  So, when I sing to you and it sounds like a herd of frogs stampeding toward the waterhole, close your eyes, and listen to the intent of my shy heart, singing and laughing.