Two passions of mine include music and the written word. I love to listen to, think about, talk about, and make the former. And I love to read and write the latter. In fact, when I retired a few years ago, I pledged to myself to try to do four things everyday: Listen to music, make music, read, and write. Not a day goes by without me doing at least two of these things. Adding a third is quite easy, and doing all four is hardly ever out of reach.
My activities in retirement help. I volunteer in the library at Winterthur where I get to engage in some serious scholarship in the form of historical and genealogical research and writing on new acquisitions by the library. And my ushering gig at The Grand and The Playhouse on Rodney Square enables me to see lots of live music for free.
My two passions sometimes converge, but generally only in one direction, oddly enough. I do like to keep the Facebook nation apprised of new music that moves me, older music that I can’t believe I’ve missed, or interesting podcasts that lure me down musical rabbit holes that lead to even more new music that moves me or old music I can’t believe I’ve missed. But that writing is nothing more than frivolity, not the more serious stuff I did during my career or what I’m doing now at Winterthur.
And I have this old blog about music which is semi-comatose at the moment. You’re on your own to find that one. These are also idle thoughts and fluff; best avoided.
Interestingly enough, I rarely read books about music, at least non-fiction works. More than a decade ago, I almost finished Ted Gioia’s Delta Blues – the Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters who Revolutionized American Music. And I have an old copy of What to Listen to in Music by Aaron Copland (1957) that has been waiting for three years to be read.
About ten years before I retired, I moved (almost) exclusively to fiction…on purpose. There are too many good novels to read, and I don’t have the time anymore to mess around with all that non-fiction (except the odd Erik Larson or David McCullough). So, if I read a book about music, it is purely coincidental.
This week, one such coincidence occurred when I
picked up a copy of Mitch Albom’s The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto. I finished it this morning. It was a very good read. The book tells the story of a musical prodigy
born in Spain in the mid-1930s. I’ll
leave it to you to learn more about the plot.
Go to Goodreads.com, if you want.
Or your favorite website about books. Or just read the book.
The book is narrated by Music. That’s right, some sort of ethereal personification of music. Aside from telling Frankie’s story, Music shares many insights about music as an art form that has been pursued by humans for as long as humans have been pursuing things. Two of them caused me to need to pause my reading so I could give them further consideration.
Early in the book, Music helps us understand his role – bestowing musical talent on humans, but such that some get more of it than others. The book opens at Frankie’s funeral with Music there to collect Frankie’s vast talent so it can be re-distributed to newborns in some reincarnation-like fashion.
How you ask? Here’s a passage from page 2 of the book,
Of course, some of you get more of me than others. Bach, Mozart, Jobim, Louis Armstrong, Eric Clapton, Philip Glass, Prince – to name but a few of your time. In each of their cases, I felt their tiny hands at birth, reaching out, grabbing me. I will share a secret: this is how talents are bestowed. Before newborns open their eyes, we circle them, appearing as brilliant colors, and when they clench their tiny hands for the first time, they are actually grabbing the colors they find most appealing. Those talents are with them for life. The lucky ones (well, in my opinion, the lucky ones) choose me. Music. From that point on, I live inside your every hum and whistle, every pluck of a string or plink of a piano key.
I cannot keep you alive. I lack such power.
But I infuse you.
Wow…
Frankie grabbed a lot of it when he was born in Spain in the mid-1930s. Read the book to find out what he did with all he grabbed, you won’t be sorry, especially if you feel you grabbed any at your own birth.
The other thing that caused me to pause was this passage from Music on p. 267. It captures something I’ve long believed but struggled to put in words.
What would you give to remember everything? I have this power. I absorb your memories; when you hear me, you relive them. A first dance. A wedding. The song that played when you got the big news. No other talent gives your life a soundtrack. I am Music. I mark time.
I don’t know what color Music is, but that seems to be the color I also grabbed. I didn’t grab much of it, mind you, to be honest. Not enough to be wildly and naturally talented. Not enough to have made a career of it in performance or teaching. But enough so that it has been able to provide a stabilizing force through all the chapters, er, movements of my life; I am gratified and grounded by music every day. As I am sure Music knows, I am infused by it and my time is marked by it.
I found this book to be very gratifying. Not as much for the fictional tale of Frankie’s life which, don’t get me wrong, is very good. No, as I mentioned, I was more gratified by the insights from Music and how they explained so much about me.
And now, I need to get ready for a show at The Grand – Joe Jackson and his 100+ year old alter ago, Max Champion.
Until next time...
