Alright, enough, for the moment, of electoral tempests and distempers. The election and the world will be what they will be, chagrined, stupefied or elated as we ourselves may become in observing and then contending with them, as we must. But we need not do so in every waking moment. (Being at the mercy of our night dreams, of course, is another matter.)
Whatever happens come Tuesday and its aftermath, we must also make time for music and dancing and loving, for joshing and jiving, for romping through woods and along shores, for piling into cars and buses, subways, trains and planes en route to both our appointed and freefloating rounds.
For beholding “the lilies of the field, how they grow.”
The curse and blessing of the formative music from one’s youth (starting at about age 14, according to cognitive scientists) is that it demands squatter rights on the residence it took up in your heart and soul back then.
The trajectory of life is restlessly, relentlessly forward, however much the lens of human history may suggest otherwise at any given time. That forwardness includes the aging and decay of all things, the very epitome and message of autumn and its great composting. Leading, on the distant horizon, again and again and again, to spring.
Meanwhile, there is music and memory, the artists of every period stamping, via some magic indelible ink, deep into the profound mystery of human consciousness, and the equally mysterious phenomena of language and melody, rhythm and harmony, meaning and mood.
Very little of it scientifically measurable, all of it true beyond words.
The other day, I came across a recently posted You Tube clip of Graham Nash, Judy Collins and Art Garfunkel singing “Imagine” at a tribute concert last year memorializing John Lennon’s birthday. Having seen neither Collins nor Garfunkel in many a year, I was taken aback by the bare fact of them being unrecognizable when framed against their images in my head.
Nor did their voices seem all that familiar, either.
Oh, sweet, inexorable, ravaging time…
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Last I saw of Art Garfunkel, he still sported those marvelous and peculiar tufts of spiraling hair at the back half of his head, conceding the front half as if it were an encroaching army, all spangles and sheen. Not having seen him, he remained frozen in time, my mind’s eye insisting that he inhabit eternal youth.
So who is this doddering old man, beret snug over his head, bent over a cane and shuffling out to a stage where Graham Nash, the years having been kinder to him, stands beaming with a full silver mane and posture as straight as a dance instructor?
And just seconds before, Nash had proclaimed Judy Collins would be joining him on stage, even as an elderly backup singer with close cropped white hair ambles daintily out to embrace him before turning kindly to the old man as he picks his way to the stage.
When the singing starts, it is Nash launching the first verse, sounding slightly hoarse and husky as befits his then-81 years on earth, but recognizable enough with a close listen.
Then Garfunkel, his voice, though not failed, not resembling in any discernible way the instrument seemingly borne of angels decades ago. (He’ll turn 83 in three days, and severely injured his vocal cords with a choking incident he survived in 2010.)
Collins, the old woman I initially assumed was a backup singer getting into place before the diva herself arrives, turns out to indeed be a backup singer, harmonizing lightly in selected spots but hardly notable as the Judy Collins of old as she cedes lead singing rigors to Nash and Garfunkel in turn.
Turns out she’ll turn 86 next spring.
Suite, Sweet Judy Blue Eyes, on the cusp of 86. It is all a little too much to bear.
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Should we be sad about this, or just give way to the stark, here-it-is reality of the calendar? The curse and blessing of the formative music from one’s youth (starting at about age 14, according to cognitive scientists) is that it demands squatter rights on the residence it took up in your heart and soul back then. So when you hear it again, especially from the artist who first laid down his or her tracks in you, it strikes chords of often overwhelming emotional resonance.
Those emotions include gratitude for what once was and can still be rekindled, however fleeting we know the rekindling to be. And no doubt it is their fleetingness that makes these moments all the more precious, long past the delusion that time and youth are forever.
“Imagine being 75 and seeing my musical idols still performing. Crying with joy and hoping these words will come true…someday.”
That’s but one of the appreciations in the comments stream of the selection above, followed by multiple “Me, too’s” from others even older, topped by this ALL-CAPPER:
“I JUST TURNED 98 LAST MONTH AND I CAN TELL YA THESE KIDS STILL GOT IT.”
(I suppose 98-year-olds should be entitled to ALL THE CAPS their hearts desire.)
But whatever our age and gladness to be reliving our youth via song, there’s no avoiding the melancholy of doing so with artists now as old or older than our grandparents were when we first swooned and laid claim to the music they made.
This slightly mushy but inviting stew of melancholy marries up well here with the song “THESE KIDS” are singing, too. Lennon’s gauzy vision of “no countries, no religion, no possessions” describes a decidedly un-diverse, undifferentiated heaven on earth that puts it at odds with there being “no heaven” in the dreamscape of a world he describes.
But mushy melancholy and nostalgia are the very coins of this realm in which we love the music we love, most of it rooted in our youth.
In his popular science bestseller, “This Is Your Brain on Music,” the neuroscientist and musician Daniel Levitin cites our surrender to emotional vulnerability as a key feature that binds us to the music and musicians we love.
“We allow them to control our emotions and even politics—to lift us up, to bring us down, to comfort us, to inspire us. We let them into our living rooms and bedrooms when no one else is around. We let them into our ears, directly, through the earbuds and headphones, when we’re not communicating with anyone else in the world. It is unusual to become so vulnerable with a total stranger.”
To which our emotional, music-loving selves might be moved to respond, “Stranger? Graham, Judy, Art—singing John’s song. Strangers???”
Not in the deep parts of ourselves indelibly wedded, till death do us part, to the moods and messages these messengers from the heavens transmitted to us when we were young, risen up in those rare moments when we can feel young yet again in the presence of their song.
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In athletic terms, this music and these musicians leave nothing out there on the playing field as they “awake our souls,” as all the best music does…
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Bonus selection here brought to my attention by reader Robby Miller (see Comments section below)…
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Lennon birthday bash from You Tube screen shot
Old tree by Darkhorse Winterwolf, Aldershot, UK https://www.flickr.com/photos/dhwinterwolf/
Garfunkel and Collins headshots from the public domain
As usual – great column! Though I will say that I didn’t and don’t find anything melancholy about it. I’m not sure when, how and why music-making became the purview of the young-ins and I’m especially fascinated by the current work of my former musical heroes (mainly the singer-songwriters) as they continue to try to make sense of their lives and the world around them.
I’m a 71 year-old, who still plays weekly with my musical pals and I plan to continue doing so until I can no longer lift a guitar or arthritis stops me from forming a chord. (I still have a few things I’d like to write and sing about.)
(I encourage everyone to give a listen to Judy Collins’s sing “Who Knows Where the Time Goes.” Seems especially pertinent in light of this column. – Talk about melancholy!)
By the way, I’m halfway through “This Is Your Brain on Music” – a great read!
Great to hear from you, Robby. Want to assure you my references to melancholy were solely about superstar musicians/singers we’ve been following for 50+ years losing their talent for one reason or other and presenting just a pale imitation of themselves to still adoring, but slightly discomfited fans. Didn’t at all mean to suggest that it applies to serious-but-not-commercially-oriented older musicians who are still exploring, improving, staying viable and loving their craft—nothing melancholy about that! (Nor about writers doing the same…)
Fine suggestion on the Collins song, thanks. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it for this post, it’s a longtime favorite. Going to add it now, though I also like the Mumford/Batiste piece enough to make the Collins a bonus selection.
So fun that you’re reading the Levitin! I have been in and out of that book for years, don’t think I have actually ever read it cover to cover, but sometimes that’s the best way! (And also a solid defense of the home library against accusations of hoarding…) :-)
About five weeks ago, I saw John Sebastian perform at Austin’s Paramount Theater. The voice is gone, but his songs (“Do You Believe in Magic”, “You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice”, “Daydream”, “Did You Ever Have to Make Up Your Mind?”, “Summer in the City”, “Nashville Cats”, “Darling Be Home Soon”) found a new voice in his marvelous stories about his personal life and music. It added a few more revolutions to my vinyl recollections. For instance, he never intended to perform at Woodstock. He went there merely as a curious observer. However, when the rains turned Max Yasgur’s farm into a lake, the electricity’s thunder was muted, leaving the organizers with one option, an acoustical 9-1-1 call. Sebastian answered, took the stage with his harmonica and guitar, high on more than one substance, and did a little CPR to make Woodstock Woodstock. Then, at the height of his career, he hit a Memphis blues joint after hours and shared a jug of whiskey with the regulars and jammed his way into a sunrise. He cherished those few unchained hours from the Lovin’ Spoonful. It evoked an even greater understanding of what made him tick musically. The blues. He closed the show with a story of rebirth. When the 60’s ended, he’d parted ways with the Spoonful and found his career as a solo artist in the doldrums with seemingly no exit. One evening, a TV producer got in touch with him. They talked a bit about this show he was creating and wanted a theme song sounding a bit like “Do Youn Believe in Magic.” To his surprise, that innocent conversation led to his biggest hit. It meant much more to him than a simple “welcome back.” It was a great way to spend a summer night in the city of Austin.
Great story about Sebastian’s story, Robert. His records took surely countless revolutions around my turntables in the early ’70s; loved all those songs you mention above, and frequently find myself breaking into lyrical snippets from them to this day. (“Fishin’ Blues” a perennial favorite that you didn’t mention; still have all the words ready at hand.) Wasn’t even sure he was still alive (wouldn’t have bet on it), glad you got to spend the evening with him, what a hoot!
Well my brother, this was a good one for me to drop in on. It comes a few weeks after a delightful evening spent with Judy and Graham on stage in a classic old movie theater in Ithaca, NY. (Well, I wasn’t on stage this time. They were.)
Sure, the voices weren’t quite the same but I found it charming when Judy forgot the next chorus and just laughed along with it and inspiring when the white-haired crowd sang along passionately at the end to the old CSNY anti-war tunes.
Yes, close one’s eyes and how quickly and vividly the memories rush to mind – the road trip to a concert on a Wednesday night to a campus 100 miles away and back in time for morning classes, the girl I thought I was sure to marry, the determination to stop a war.
I can’t conclude without commending you for this sentence – “Lennon’s gauzy vision of “no countries, no religion, no possessions” describes a decidedly un-diverse, undifferentiated heaven on earth that puts it at odds with there being “no heaven” in the dreamscape of a world he describes.”
Not only was that a brilliant exemplar of not only stringing the right words together but also some of the clearest thinking on Lennon’s radical faith in the innate goodness of humanity if liberated from God as well along with negating a wide swath of historically significant if often corrupt institutions created by that humanity (e.g., the concept of private property).
So bravo, my friend and fellow scribe! I may use some of this in my blog, credit attributed of course.
Hey! We’re still alive! Ain’t that great?
David
Yo, my Bro: In answer to your last question, a resounding and joyful Hell Yes! You keep on keepin’ on there, pal.
Also, you’re right, there can be a certain charm to aged singers flubbing lines or just not able to call on the voices we fell in love with back then. Much depends on the context and the grace of the performer and the audience in those situations. And music, it occurs to me, is different than, say, the theater or literature or painting. If an aged actor really couldn’t inhabit and be convincing in a role anymore, or a novelist just couldn’t think clearly or sustainedly enough and turned out subpar work, or a painter with advanced tremor just couldn’t manage a brush anymore, the audiences would be much less forgiving. They’d stop buying tickets for the play and it would close, they’d stop buying the book and publishers would not accept subsequent works, they’d stop attending exhibitions and buying the painter’s new work, and the artists would simply bring an end to their careers. But live music affects us in a different way, given how deeply it wears a groove into our memory storehouse, how nostalgic it makes us feel, how much it reminds us, poignantly, of our own declining capacities and ever encroaching end—a whole jumble of emotions that don’t attend to any other art form. And there’s good and bad with that, which means it’s complicated!—far more than the other arts.
Which is also why I suspect music stands above and beyond every other art form, given how all-encompassing it is to our physical, emotional, and spiritual selves.
Hey: Thanks for stimulating some additional thinking on this; has served as a tonic for my Sunday morning and a welcome respite from otherwise non-stop agitating about Tuesday!
I considered memorizing lyrics and melody my most serious JOB, nay, calling for the better part of my teens and twenties. I took it very seriously, and it has given me serious joy in return in the form of emotional, chronological and physical reference points. No language quite like it.
I can’t help thinking it’s a sort of “You are what you eat” analogy, what you ingest psychically and emotionally surely shapes our world view, choices and conduct. I hope there’s always room in our lives for “good” music (very subjective, I know) and it’s ability to form connection and perspective, move us to empathy, energy and action. I often think of this lyric fragment from singer-songwriter Kate Campbell’s “How Much Can One Heart Hold?”
If the heart is a bottomless pit
You better watch what you put in it
Before you know it you’re carrying around
A ton of stuff that’ll weigh you down….
Or: the opposite! Watch what you put in it!!!!
There is sure to be a special “Music Corner” of heaven reserved for those devoted as you, Mary, and maybe an even smaller, more exclusive corner for lyric memorizer! (Or actually, the practice is perhaps more than enough reward in itself, a kind of self-created heaven on earth that we draw sustenance from and stray from only at our peril…)
I like the idea of watching inputs & how they influence and affect outputs, a kind a spiritual nutrition approach to one’s life, though it can get problematic if it’s interpreted as an imperative to reflexively turn away from suffering and misery, whether in others or oneself. But at least in terms of ensuring plentiful nourishing inputs of beauty, hope, generosity, love; yeah, once could do much worse than to live by a commitment to ingest plenty of those, on a daily basis!