Homage to a Dinosaur

Surprise! I’m not talking about animals today. Instead, I’m highlighting a communication tool from yesteryear.

My mother and I were chatting on the phone the other day and she mentioned meeting the former typing teacher from my high school. I never knew the woman for I had not taken any typing classes. In fact, I distinctly remember staying as far away from that classroom as I could.

I did not type, much to my father’s chagrin (after all, he owned a typewriter repair business, as did his father before him). He made many attempts over the years to stoke my interest in becoming a typist—thinking, I suppose, it would assure me an income as an adult. The only keyboard I had an affinity for was the kind that produced music. I had great penmanship: Why would I need to learn how to type?

Truth be told, the sound of typewriters unsettled me back then. But the aesthetics of the machines have never lost their appeal to me.

Imagine my delight when a Lull reader sent me an example of a typewriter as music—the unusual and agreeable blend of machine clickety-clacking with symphony orchestra. Here, for your pleasure, is a concerto by Leroy Anderson, performed by Alasdair Malloy:

[Thanks to the Lull reader who sent the video.]

Applying Musical Restraint

This morning’s air is cool and it seems every bird has answered the weather’s invitation to open in song. No cars, no joggers. Nothing stirs in this still dawn but the surround sound of feathered notes.

Later today I will practice my own music-making—a bit of Bach and Gounod on the piano. My keyboard is electric, so I take care to practice silently with the aid of some headphones. This is partially because I don’t want neighbors to hear me, but mostly it’s for the birds’ sake.

Oh, I confess: A few times when birds have perched at our feeders, I’ve played the piano out loud and enjoyed hearing birds respond to it. Major keys inspire them more than minor ones; the same for simple melodies over complex arrangements.

But I worry: What has my music communicated to the birds? Who do they think I am? I don’t wish to confuse them or frighten them or get their hopes up about a potential mate. And I absolutely don’t want to repeat the unfortunate Robin incident of my youth.

I can’t recall which sonata I was learning at the time, but it attracted a crazed fan. I played the family’s console piano then, so headphones weren’t an option.

One Spring day as I practiced this particular sonata, a THUD startled me. I quit playing and cautiously approached the window to investigate the noise. A Robin sat dazed in the pussywillow bush just beneath the window. Once I was certain he’d recovered, I returned to the piano and resumed practice.

THUD! This time, I ran to the window. There was the Robin again, only this time he lay sprawled and limp across the bush—dead for all I knew. “MOM!!” I needed assistance with this turn of events.

My parents came to my aid, but by the time my father had stepped outside and arrived at the pussywillow bush, the bird had resurrected himself and flown out to the ash tree in our yard. My mother convinced me all was fine and left me to my sonata.

This time as I played, my father watched. Turns out, the Robin would listen from the ash tree then fly pell-mell toward the source of the music. His window nemesis, of course, broke his path on each attempt. Well, on the first two attempts anyway. This third time the Robin simply perched on the bush and continued listening.

As you probably guessed, once I understood that this sonata, or my rendition of it, was causing the potentially fatal behavior of the bird, I stopped practicing it. I only hoped my music teacher would understand.

Mercifully, we’ve had no window collisions here since erecting our bird feeders, and I don’t expect any. But I still worry about giving birds the wrong impression with my music. I would hate to mislead them in any way. So as much as I’d like to join the avian chorus that sings here, I try to be the better human and refrain from participation. Sigh.

Deflated or Motivated?

As if Zuzu didn’t deflate me enough with her oneupmanship of agility, Lil’ Buck’s grace and balance while jookin’ in this 2011 video pained me further:



On the other hand, Zuzu and Lil’ Buck (not to mention Yo-Yo Ma and Camille Saint-Saëns!) are outliers—part of a curious elite whose extreme giftedness sets them outside the realm of potential available to the rest of us. While I know I’ll never be good enough to reach their inner circle, I hope to at least continue chipping away at my own limitations.

[Video from the Wall Street Journal.]

Musical Mid-March Morning

From every direction, avian melodies, calls, and trills—in harmony, never dissonance—usher the sun as it rises. The air is heavenly birdsong this morning.

Is there a more cheerful way to start the week?

[Photographer unknown.]

FREE Music for Dogs!

I’m a day late in hearing about this, but I wanted to pass it on to you anyway.

Through A Dog’s Ear is offering a free download each day this week of their specially arranged music for dogs.

Today, for instance, is a Debussy piece. And to top it off, you can play a word contest on behalf of your favorite shelter. If you win, your shelter will receive the Calm Your Canine series of 3 CDs and YOU will win the Holiday Gift Pack of a book and 7 CDs. It’s a GREAT deal!

If your dog, or one you know, gets anxious about anything—thunder, lightning, riding in a car, life in general—check out these CDs and the science behind them. I wish I’d had these CDs when we adopted our pooch—Miss Nervous Nellie, as we so often called her. Then maybe I could have played the piano more often and car rides wouldn’t have been the messy production we all grew to fear.

Do an anxious dog a favor and check out this music while it’s free.

The Blue Jay Chronicles: A Cappella Trio

As I wrote earlier about our Blue Jays, they returned to our feeders this Autumn after a long summer hiatus. Or perhaps, more correctly, a new batch of young Jays had discovered our feeders, for they seemed new to the world and their feathers had neither found their proper place on their bodies nor reached the saturated blues that prompt their name. Their little head crests were usually resting flat when they were feeding, meaning they were comfortable there and not on high alert.

I can’t say with certainty how many Blue Jays we’ve been watching, but three of them hang together in our yard—all about the same age, all jibbery-jabbering with one another wherever they go. When I tell people about them, the first response I hear is, “Jays are mean.”

Well, I haven’t seen it. In fact, I’ve seen our three little ones intimidated by other smaller birds at the feeders, or else stand their ground without flinching, but they’ve never bullied anyone else away as do the sparrows. There are studies that bear this out. (Of course I did a little research.) Only about 1% of Jays in the studies showed any kind of random aggressiveness—stealing eggs from other birds’ nests, attacking other birds, eating other birds and their offspring.

I turned to an older reference. While The Visitor was here, she bought me a reproduction of the 1904 Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music by F. Schuyler Mathews. It contains black-and-white drawings of songbirds PLUS piano notation of the songs. I realize the Internet provides audio clips of birdsong, but for me, the notation makes it easier for identification. Some songs are too similar for me to hear the distinguishing characteristics; with notation, it’s obvious. I looked up Blue Jays in this century-old guide to find the birds categorized, basically, as mean. So I don’t know if Blue Jays used to be mean and have evolved into kinder, gentler creatures, or if their bad reputation is merely myth. I chose to follow our little trio’s comings-and-goings with no expectations of behavior—no pigeon-holing, as it were.

One afternoon as I sat in our backyard, the trio flew into a tree and bush next door. They took turns squawking that well-known Jay cry. At first I thought they were pursuing something—or being pursued. Then I started laughing because they were SO LOUD and SO INCESSANT that it sounded like a contest. Which Jay’s cries were the loudest, the longest, the most frequent? They upped the ante with each new shriek.

Then a car pulled up into the parking area near them, windows down and some kind of hybrid hip-hop-pop music blaring. I was irritated because I expected the trio to scare and move on.

Instead, the Jays stopped squawking and stayed put. The driver turned off the engine but not the radio. More irritation on my part. What the heck was that driver up to? Either silence the car and get out of it, or go away.

Then I heard it. The trio started vocalizing again. This time, though, two of the birds sang a note similar to the squawk but at a deeper, fuller pitch sustained at a moderate volume. They sang together, alternating repetition of the note sometimes once, sometimes twice in a measured cadence. And above this percussive alto flow sang the third bird in a soprano tune of six notes. They were actually harmonizing! I was so astonished I didn’t have the presence of mind to record the concert.

I’ve read that Jays can mimic other birds’ melodies, but that’s not what my little trio was doing. They were riffing off one another, inspired perhaps by the hybrid hip-hop-pop. They were creating their own syncopated, chord-embellished composition.

This little concert is now one of the wonders of my world—no less special than the ancient pyramids or the Grand Canyon. It could have been the opening to one of those old Coca-Cola commercials:

“I’d like to buy the world a home and furnish it with love,
Grow apple trees and honey bees, and snow white turtle doves.
I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony …”

In an era of distraction and dissonance, we do well to cherish harmony wherever we find it.

[Top illustration by Josh Brill; other illustrations by Charlie Harper.]

Gauging Age at the Grocery Store

Last year at my neighborhood Windy City grocer, I was bemoaning the saccharine, easy-listening pop music blaring over the PA system. I loathe the incessant music, news, and commercials broadcast by retailers to enhance my shopping experience. I prefer silence. But just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, a familiar voice rang out: David Byrne with the Talking Heads. What?!

When did the Talking Heads cross over to the Easy Listening genre? Probably about the same time I started hearing from AARP. Ouch.

Last week, while hunting and gathering at my local Bluegrass grocery store, another age reminder played over the PA system. This time, the song was familiar, but I couldn’t place the voice. I stopped to listen. Good gracious! It was a cover of a Smiths anthem—some woman blandly substituting for Morrissey. Blech.

Oh, you just wait, you youngsters out there. Wait until that day in your near future when you’re shopping at your local superstore and you start hearing hideous covers of Lady Gaga and Eminem, or maybe the PA system cranks out a favorite from Florence and The Machine. This will be your clarion call to a new age—er, rather, an old one.

Sounds of Silence Always Appreciated

This is Mozart, our pooch’s friend and the closest thing to music she would tolerate.

We had no theme song for the pooch as we did for the cat. Oh, we tried to get something going to the tune of “How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?” But the poor canine got nervous at the sound of music, canned or live. All of which I was reminded of when I found this passage in a journal the other day. If I remember correctly, the pooch and I were sitting on the beach together.

My pooch just gave me her “Knock it off!” look. I took the hint and stopped humming. She turned away from me and loudly “Hrrrmphed,” which in this context meant “Sheesh! You’d think she’d know better by now! What’s a dog got to do to get a little obedience out of people?”

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Last week, I drove alone to pick up the dinner my father ordered from a favorite restaurant. His hearing has diminished as his cancer has progressed. Consequently, I spend most of my days speaking at a volume that makes me feel as if I’m enveloped in a giant tolling bell, my body in constant reverberation mode.

So driving alone is a small relief. I thought I’d take advantage of the moment by listening to some music, another pleasure of my father’s that’s gone the way of his hearing. Since there were no CDs in the car, radio was my only option.

I didn’t mind. It would be good to find a station or two I liked in the Bluegrass State. But outside of Christian and country formats, the first station that played anything familiar to me was—not classical, not jazz, not indie—Christmas. There I was trying to savor a rare moment alone on a colorful autumn evening and holiday music was already clogging the airwaves.

As I turned onto the street leading to the restaurant’s parking lot, a sleigh scene stood sentry; another sleigh stood in front of the mall the restaurant was housed in.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised. A boutique in my neighborhood has been festooned with Christmas decor since before Halloween; Christmas candy and novelties cluttered pharmacies’ aisles months ago waiting to be shelved; Sears brought out its nodding reindeer in August. Mostly, I think, I was incensed that untimely sights and sounds had ruined my precious car time.

Days later as we were rearranging my father’s space for mobility and safety reasons, my husband stumbled upon an artificial Christmas wreath. Yet another sore spot for me: About 20 years ago, I ordered it from a local florist for my father. It was supposed to be REAL pine and holly and mistletoe. I didn’t learn of the mistake until the next year when my father reported that he hung “my” wreath on the door again. I asked why in the world he’d do that. I’ll let you imagine the miscommunication that ensued.

Yesterday my father made a joke about hanging the old wreath on the door this week—before Thanksgiving. The joke segued into an idea we’re still noodling on: Why not celebrate all the coming holidays now while my father can still enjoy them?

I’ll let you know what he decides. Until then, I have to prepare for every possibility.

Do you hear what I hear? “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer…”

Disco Gal Comes Clean

It occurred to me yesterday while trudging through the snow to the grocery store (because our car is on “respite” again from working) that Tuesday’s post might have misled you. You may believe the quoted disco lyrics gave you insight about my taste in music.

But you’re WRONG! Let me explain.

First, the lyrics were appropriate to the subject matter.

Second, the songs were drifting through my head because my husband and I had just watched Young[at]Heart, a documentary on the senior choral group of the same name. [Blogger won't let me use the symbol for at, hence all the brackets.] These elderly yet spunky singers perform new (often slower) arrangements of rock, R&B, and punk tunes backed by a few superb instrumentalists. The DVD includes music videos of the Young[at]Heart Chorus performing the Donna Summer and Bee Gees songs I quoted.

The magic of the film is the audience. For some audience members, it’s the first time they’ve ever understood the lyrics to half the songs. For all audience members, the music of Jimi Hendrix (“Purple Haze”), Sonic Youth (“Schizophrenia”), James Brown (“I Feel Good”), The Clash (“Should I Stay or Should I Go?”), and David Byrne (“Road to Nowhere”) takes on entirely new dimensions.

Yet what’s most interesting to watch are the reactions of the audience and how they change over the course of the concert. Younger generations may roll their eyes initially, or reveal embarrassment at the unseemly pairing of geezers with classic rock, or just laugh. But by the end of the show, every generation reaches the same conclusion, many with tears in their eyes. Even the audience of prison inmates.

Everyone feels a message of hope. A message that life does go on and we owe it to ourselves to make the most of it. That no matter how bad circumstances may seem now, or how many ways we’ve screwed up, there’s a second chance ahead if we’re willing to take it.

So if you’re in need of a pick-me-up, rent Young[at]Heart. It will give you some real insights about the human condition.

Look to Small Presses for Overlooked Treasures

"The past is simple enough. The future is what I find remote and difficult."

That's a line from Flann O'Brien's The Dalkey Archive. It was published in the early '60s and would have gone unnoticed by me had it not been for Stop Smiling magazine, which printed a small profile on the current American publisher of this book.

I'll not write unkindly of large publishing houses (for they one day may be the hand that feeds me). But I encourage you to seek out books from the small presses that take chances on authors overlooked by the biggies—authors unlikely to hit any bestseller lists or be read by a mainstream audience.

As for The Dalkey Archive, it provided some much-needed levity during my Lull and some delightful play with language. Plus, the quote above jumped out at me as the perfect description of the jobhunter's challenge.

I'll leave you with this passage from the book:

[De Selby] sat down at the piano and after some slow phrases, erupted into what Mick with inward wit, would dub a headlong chromatic dysentery which was 'brilliant' in the bad sense of being inchoate and, to his ear at least, incoherent. A shattering chord brought the disorder to a close.

—Well, [DeSelby] said, rising, what did you think of that?

Hackett looked wise.

—I think I detected Liszt in one of his less guarded moments, he said.