91.5 FM

I listen to a classical music station most of the time. I love early chamber music scored for string and winds. A nice change is medieval music with sackbuts, viola de gamba, and crumhorns. Ah crumhorns: wonderful reedy instruments that sound like a cross between a basoon and the Aflack duck. A terrific piece of music with this gaggle of instruments is the Terpsichore (pronounced "terp-sick'-or-ee") of Michael Praetorius. You can hear one of my favorite dances here.
So while I love this music on the radio, there are times when the announcer is so irritatingly smarmy that I have to turn it off.
Here's what I mean. One guy in particular, seems smitten with the sound of his own voice. He carefully and slowly enunciates every word as though he thinks the English language is above and beyond the hearer's comprehension. Then at the end of a carefully crafted sentence, he pauses as if to reflect smugly on his comments. After a slow breath, he starts in again. I just happened to tune in the other night to hear this series of remarks:
"...a concerto for Jew's Harp. That's not a mistake, it's reality" (he gives the word reality a bit more air through his vocal cords as though singing it), "and oh my...it is quite a work by Johan, Georg, Albrechtsberger" (he pronounces each word carefully and discretely).
"Now" (his voice inflection goes up and then down with this word), "here's a musical vignette that evokes quite another setting. Although I must say it has never inspired me to punch a cow" (he chuckles a low, melodic gurgle), it is music by Thompson who wrote the score for the motion picture, "The Plow that Broke the Plain." "
We are immediately accosted by a somewhat atonal opening by strings and clarinets. I turn the radio off in disgust. As if this guy could even recognize a cow in a lineup.

Why do people have to talk like this? This announcer knows everything there is to know about music, composers, conductors, performers. But he talks about them in such a superior way, as if that is all there is in life which merits attention. As if I need to be concerned whether Alfred Brendel plays in a more spirited way than say, Murray Perahia. As if it is more important to know the name of Glenn Gould's dog and the odd way Glenn spoke to him, than to hear the music and be either cheered on or sent off on on a cloud of reflection.

Robert Fulghum wrote once that America needs more bad singers and piano players. In the evening when we all gather together we should be creating something of our own, not merely listening to perfection that was recorded after repeated takes. Something that comes from our own souls and helps us transcend our surroundings. Forget the bad notes, cracking voice and slurred fast notes. If it makes you smile, stand taller, and have a glimpse of grandeur, then singing is the best thing for you. The product that comes from this enterprise will not have a sniveling program host making a windy pronouncement about it. This kind of singing might make some people laugh, but not those who see and listen with their hearts. It is soulful music of the common man that we need to hear more of.
When I was in graduate school at the University of Minnesota, I used to listen to Minnesota Public Radio every morning on the way to class. There were two hilarious program hosts named Dale Connelly and Jim Ed Poole, as I recall. They played music with soul, right from the center of all that creates Americana. Songs like, I go out walking after midnight by Patsy Cline; 99 1/2 Just Won't Do by the Sabathani Gospel Choir; Waltzing with Bears; and a delightful song called Baby's Got the Car Keys:

Daddy put the keys in his pocket when he walked into the house
Or did he put them on the table by the telephone.
He thinks that's where he left them. He really isn't sure.
He knows he had to have them just to get inside the door.
Mom's in the kitchen, lookin' on the shelf,
She says this kind of panic is a hazard to her health.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
She puts them in the toy box and rattles them around,
Drops them in her diaper, now they can't be found.

Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Digging in the sofa gets a dollar, fifty cents,
A toothpick, a candy bar, a dozen fountain pens.
Chaos in the living room, disaster in the den,
Sister says she saw 'em but she can't say when.
Tick-tock the car is locked, Daddy's going into shock.
Smelly, dirty diapers on the breeze.
Dad says he'll change it but baby's got to wait
Until he finds those dad dadgum keys!

Baby's got the car keys and she's crawling down the hall.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The baby starts to giggle, there's something in her hand.
That booger drops a wallet in the garbage can.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.
Mom's on the telephone trying to call a cab,
Daddy's changing baby's diaper in the living room.
The baby's on the table with a bottle in her mouth.
Daddy opens up the diaper, he begins to shout.
Treasure in the diaper, treasure in the muck,
It sure looks a lot like the keys to the truck.
Time to go to work, time to go to school.
And everybody's looking like a fool.

Baby's got the car keys and she had them all along.
She's a cute little pickpocket, sticky-fingered Goldilocks,
And she's not even 3 feet tall.
The party isn't over, they're about to find out,
Daddy threw away his wallet when he took the garbage out.
Time to go to work, time to go to school,
And everybody's looking like a fool.

These are the kinds of songs that make you laugh right out loud at the unexpected when you're stuck in traffic on the bridge over the Mississippi River, or are backed up at the Grand Avenue exit. Long commutes are a delight when the music pulls you right in to sing along, laugh and gasp at the lyrics, gives you a surge of endorphins.

Yes, we need to have conceptions of performance perfection, and we are fortunate to hear samples of this on the radio whenever we are interested in turning it on. I love to hear a flawless rendition of the Nocturne from the Borodin String Quartet. It can make me go helplessly weak. But most of the time, we are all languishing for need of more primal, simple music. More people need to be singing over the dishpan, in the shower, and out weeding the garden. We don't hear people singing very much any more--they all listen to other people do it when they themselves are the ones who would receive the greatest benefit by singing. It doesn't matter if it is off-key or if you run out of breath before the end of a line, or can't remember all the words. More of us need to crash through Chopin's Revolutionary Etude on the piano, and more need to conduct invisible orchestras playing Brahm's First Symphony, no holds barred. We need to cultivate personal cultures that are full of life, tapping into something much deeper than the stagnant, canned accompaniament to life that many tolerate.

I am reminded of a visit I made to a tiny rural church in Ballinacrow, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was asked to sing several songs, and a couple other individuals played instruments and sang as well. The audience was most appreciative, as many of them were farmers and were not trained in music. Then a man named Tommy stood at the front of the church. "Come on then, Tommy. Let's hear ye sing" his friend in the back called out. Tommy cleared his throat. He was wearing ill-fitting dark pants and a soft brown shirt. He looked awkward and a bit apologetic, but he did not flinch. His wife was dying of cancer, he had just learned. He looked out the window past the cows grazing in the church yard. "I first heard this song back when George Beverly Shea sang it on the radio" he said deliberately. "And oi loved it." He drew in his breath sharply as the Irish do when they are making a point. "Oi use ta sing it out in the field walking after the cows. Oi sang it day and night. It's still muh favorite song."
Tommy's rough voice broke in singing then:

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry.
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Oh Love of God!
How rich and pure;
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song.

A deep sense of tearful contentment and a reaching out for God was what I breathlessly held to my heart as he finished. There is not a time that I hear this hymn but that I see Tommy singing loudly, untamed graying hair tumbling over his collar, his hands held rigidly at his sides, eyes gazing up at the ceiling toward the back of the tiny church, the music coming from deep within him. It was just Tommy and God that afternoon. We were blessed to be allowed to listen in. The soul he shared with us that day was the most precious musical gift I've ever received.

My wheezing, affected radio announcer knows a lot about music. There are times when I appreciate his interpretative genius and delicate sensibilities. But I wish sincerely that we could hear more music that rises spontaneously from the hearts and souls of men like Tommy on that wonderful summer day in Ireland--music which needs no introduction and no interpretation.