Every time our Jewish mother, Mildred Joseph, took us to Avery Fisher or Carnegie Hall, she would say “I’m so glad that baby Jesus was born because there has been so much good music written because of him.”
I thought of Mildred on Sunday when the soloist sang, “How can I keep from singing?” How, indeed!
This is the time of year when the air is filled with music, holiday music, mostly Christmas oriented, that includes cheery secular songs, moving and beautiful carols, and instrumental compositions with upbeat tempos, like those of Mannheim Steamroller.
“Music expresses that which cannot be said and cannot remain silent,” wrote Victor Hugo, well before his words spawned the soaring lyrics and music of Broadway’s Les Miserables. I’m sure Mr. Hugo’s music did not have to include lyrics. Chords and melodies move people, too.
I am a fan of music without words, like the compositions that we heard with Mildred. I have been moved to tears by melodic representations of, say, the afternoon of a faun or being beneath the Southern Cross. “Greensleeves” does not require words to inspire me. Sometimes words even get in the way of magnificent compositions.
I am a fan of music with words, too. Lots of people must be. Radio stations depend on it. When do we most commonly sing? At important events: weddings, church services, holiday gatherings, funerals, ball games. And in private, like in the shower. I think we sometimes forget to sing when singing would be healthy.
Judy and I enjoy Broadway musicals. Wherever we have lived, we have been season subscribers, or at least regular attendees, for local theaters presenting the ones from the canon—Oklahoma, Show Boat, Les Miz, Carousel. We like Sondheim, too, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. When we are in a big city, like New York or London, a hunt for tickets is one of our first priorities. In New York, we froze walking from the hotel to Jersey Boys. For my birthday, Mamma Mia in London was a special treat. “Thank you for the Music” by ABBA captures my sentiments exactly. I want that song and one from A Chorus Line (What I did for Love) at my funeral.
We see movie musicals, too. In a recent interview, a Hollywood director who specializes in them separated the genre into those movies in which the song is the natural outgrowth of the dialogue leading up to it and those where the song sticks out like a sore thumb.
That might be art imitating life. There might be inappropriate times for singing. Maybe it depends on the song.
Years ago, I was part of a church committee charged with hiring a new choir director. One candidate asked me how many poems I could recite in full. Then he asked me how many songs I could sing, remembering all of the lyrics. The latter number swamped the former. He made his point.
I heard another interview about a fellow whose dad dragged him to Pete Seeger concerts when the fellow was a teenager. Being a teen, he preferred rock or hip hop or anything other than folk music. He took notice, though, of how the Seeger concerts created communities of people who loved the music and sang the lyrics and shared the values of social conscience and social justice. He said he felt there were real bonds between these people. I’m told rock concerts do the same thing.
People of a Certain Age, if you were in an elementary classroom like mine, you sang frequently. That’s how I learned “O Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean,” which I have never sung since fourth grade. But, we sang, often. When did we stop?
Music unites. What nation does not have an anthem? What college lacks a piece it calls its Alma Mater?
How can I keep from singing? My Dad could not. The songs he sang on a regular basis during his life are the in-the-moment visits by him for me whenever I hear them.
One in particular. At our house for Christmas dinner one year, we played Barbara Streisand’s Christmas album. “I Wonder as I Wander “played. Dad dissolved. I had never seen him so…what? Moved, certainly. Sad? Depressed? Filled with memory? With joy?
I can’t know the music’s power on Dad. But it had power.
How can I keep from singing?
Actually, I can think of one inappropriate time for singing. It is tied to a place. Dad sat on our deck in Sacramento at 4:00 a.m. and sang to the trees. He woke our neighbors. They were very nice, saying that he sang beautifully, but hoping that he might start a little later in the morning.
Next morning, he sang again, more softly. No one awoke. He could not keep from singing.
Neither can I, in my head. Not sure that I would want to. Mildred would approve.
Daniel E. White
December 17, 2015