Found Music

I don't remember much about the wedding. And that's a good thing. A poorly planned affair, it was thrown together at the last minute by a couple with bad aim. As we waited outside in the hundred degree heat for the minister to show up, the quaint little chapel offering everything for your wedding needs except ventilation, the kids got crazy, perhaps from the heat, but more likely from the prospect of chasing each other up and down the grass-covered hills while wearing their wedding best. When the minister finally made it, lamely blaming the directions, we rounded up the kids, all stained, sweaty and crazed, and herded them into the hothouse chapel.

While we wilted, the kids revolted. I don't blame them. If I could've cried my way out of that stunningly realistic simulation of hell, I would've wailed too.

During the service, a skirmish broke out in the second pew, three sisters kicking the wooden divider with their patent leather pumps while lamenting the heat in loud stage whispers. A particularly scruffy lot to begin with, these three girls were a posse unto themselves, wreaking havoc on the green fields with malicious abandon, pushing the smaller kids and throwing rocks at the chapel, perhaps in an admirable but wayward attempt to punch some air holes in that insufferable building. They were wild, the sort of kids who've never been tamed, a feral pack beyond redemption. While the minister hastily escorted the bride and groom to wedded bliss, the twisted sisters resisted all attempts to quell their kicking and shush their whining, distracting us from the nuptials and even, at after one particularly piercing shriek, drawing glares from the wedding party, momentarily popping their bubble of serenity on that god-forsaken afternoon.

The rest is all a blur, a gratefully repressed memory, except one moment I'll never forget. It was during the reception, a raucous affair mixing the aforementioned crazed kids with the now-crazed adults, their dehydrated bodies rapidly filling with gallons of freely flowing chilled jug wine, as I was checking for the nearest exit while gauging the temperature of the room, trying to time my exit for just before the fist fights started, when the sisters began to sing.

Their first notes, in perfect three-part harmony, silenced the room. They stood in a row, their heads back and eyes closed, three perfect angelic voices emanating from the mouths of devils. Transfixed, we stared, drinking in their sounds of innocence, basking in its pure tone as their voices elevated us out of the sty and into the clouds, our frazzled inner fibers soothed for the first time that day. I don't remember how long they sang, for time stood still while they held the stage. Nor do I remember what they sang, for their song bypassed my brain and went straight to my soul. Although the rest of the day was a blur, as I've said, I distinctly recall it being a satisfying blur, the music replaying in our minds, dulling our sharp edges and casting a mellow glow over the proceedings.

Great music transcends, taking us places we never expected to go. The sisters' music was great music, perhaps the greatest I've ever heard, for it transcended the vilest circumstances, tamed the wildest beasts, dragooning us most unwittingly to a higher and much better place than we had any reason to expect. Sure I've heard more skilled singers singer better songs accompanied by finer music played by superior musicians, but I expected to hear all that when I heard it. It's the unexpected that made the sisters' performance so memorable, a quality that's very difficult to reproduce in a world-famous concert hall with a world-renowned orchestra playing world-famous classics.

The sisters' moment is an example what I think of as "found music," great music that sneaks up on us when we least expect it. One rarely encounters found music these days, surrounded as we are by a cacaphonous din of canned sounds and jingles desperately trying to grab our short attention spans with three seconds of empty catchiness, while our greatest music is preserved in specially-built hermetically-sealed acoustically-perfect listening palaces safely isolated from the world, where even the greatest performances merely elicit a nod of the head and a polite clap of the hands from expressionless faces, their suitably high expectations met but, sadly, rarely surpassed.

Comments

[WAW]

Lovely piece. I'm glad I learned about your blog from OGIC.

[Misspent]

Your post reminds me of a current contestant on American Idol. At first glance he looks like he should be a shoddy mechanic or a fellow on Jerry Springer with three sister-wives but who turns out to have an extraordinary voice that does not match his appearance. It is quite refreshing.

[rannva]

To this day my uncle is a somewhat mysterious man. He doesn't talk much, and when he does it's always with a low voice. One summer evening, on a visit to my 'homeland', my closest relatives had gathered by the lakeside and without making any fuss or introduction my uncle began playing a beautiful hymn on the trumpet. I knew it was for me and my husband who were visiting from far away. That is how he expresses his emotions. That is when music 'finds' its way to the ear, and further.

[Julia]

I've been lurking here for a couple weeks, and really enjoying your blog (even reading way back into the archives), but I am finally moved to comment because this particular piece is amazing--beautifully written, great topic/idea. Thanks so much for all the fabulous blogging you do, I love your writing style, your choice of topics, and your sensibility. I am constantly checking in to see what's next! Count me in as a faithful reader. :)

Julia