“Heard on the news musical instrument sales are really up – guitars, flutes, horns.”
This text message came to me from the Creative Director of this paper. We had rendezvoused when I went to a nursery to get some flowers to put in the stone planter on my front porch. My daughter had surprised me with a day off, so I called Paula Nicewanger to offer my help delivering the paper; I’d forgotten that the Memorial Day issue was a two-week paper. Paula volunteered to drive me back home with my vincas and petunias, and as she drove, I told her that I was a little stuck: I needed a suggestion for a column. About two hours later, she responded with the text.
I didn’t hear the same news that she did, but I immediately started to riff on the idea. A deep vein of music runs through me, an underground river of joy from which I drink daily. When I was young, I sang in churches with my brother and sister. (My sister has the most magnificent voice that few have ever heard.) I played the violin when I was in grade school. My three children all played instruments: Lisa on trumpet, Lauren on violin, and Chris on drums. Chris has branched out to guitar and keyboards, and has put to good use the classical guitar with which I had been struggling. Two of my grandchildren play instruments; 16-year-old Xavion is on trombone, while his sister, 11-year-old Imani, is on saxophone.
In my neighborhood, there are many houses, and in an attempt to demonstrate solidarity and to banish gloom, there arose a community-wide musical collaboration: At 6 p.m. each Friday, each and every one of us was to play Black Sabbath’s song, “War Pigs” on our front porch. This outbreak of joy wore out quickly, but was followed by a brief spate of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC. (I broke from the pack by playing the version by the Croatian cellists, 2Cellos.) But the musical objective was to show solidarity in the face of uncertainty.
Paula’s text continued, “Music heals the soul … People all over the world are singing on their balconies…”
As I walked back from a failed attempt to get potting soil from a grocer, I thought of Paula’s text and a news program I had seen the previous Sunday, about musicians playing on their balconies while their neighbors listened. Walking and musing, I passed a young man playing his electric guitar on his front lawn; I raised my fist to flash what I hoped was a “rock on” sign of encouragement. (I think I got the fingers up in the proper place and order.) At home again, I thought of the ritual that I have with my youngest granddaughter. She comes to me with her small blue ukulele and hands it to me, then drags out her little drum set, for she knows that the ukulele and the drums can make music together; I strum, and she bangs and there is music.
In my family, we sing for joy, sing when in pain, and sing just because we can. Music is our soothing balm and I recommend it. A newly recurring song plays during an ad on a TV show I watch. Some of the lyrics are these: “Oh, I know that there’ll be better days/Oh, that sunshine ‘bout to come my way…” The song is from the band OneRepublic’s album, “Live Quarantine Recording.” My favorite musicians, Charlie Ballantine and his wife, Amanda Gardier, have given Facebook Live concerts, doing what we all should:
Make music.
cjon3acd@att.net