"My" song
I love how songs can have special meanings for us. Normal tunes become embroiled in some event or person, and we can't divide the two.
I sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot regularly. As I sweep, garden, or wash the dishes it readily comes to my lips. My Dad says it reminds him of his old college roommate, a music major who also croaked the melody regularly. It was his favorite song, and it often brings a smile to my dad when he hears me singing in the kitchen.
Thomas Moore, an Irish poet, set endless verse to old airs, but most Irish recognize his classic love song Believe me if all those endearing young charms. It's a beautiful song penned for his wife who suffered a severe disfigurement and feared her Thomas would move on. He never did, or so the story goes, but loved her 'till the end.
My dad plays it on the piano, the highlight of his two-song repertoire, recalling how his grandfather would whistle it ad infinitum. I played it when I first moved to college, reminding myself of home. Each time I play it or sing it, I make a silent dedication to my father and grandfather. A beautiful verse.
Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto has a beautiful second movement. The tragic, delicate arpeggios of the piano are joined by flute and muted strings with breathless grace, a flawless piece of romantic composition. I passed it along to the first girl I ever fell in love with shortly before we had a fight and never spoke again. I can't divorce her memory from the melancholy movement. It's the lonesome mingling of coupled instruments and solo piano that makes me feel wistful. The rising and falling action still excites me.
Dave Brubeck's Take Five gets better each time I hear it. When I first got to college, my roommate knew I liked Brubeck, so he always played this song. It's something that helped us get along the first few days and broke the ice. I can't separate him miming the bass line or drums. It makes me smile each time.
I could go on, but I won't. I've made my point. Music permeates our lives, mingling memories with melody and a faces. The tragedies we face can live in a piano concerto, the joys in an Irish Ballad. Old faces resurface as our iPod shuffles and plays on long car rides. It's a beautiful tragedy for me, to never escape the past, never forget who I knew or who I was.
If I may end with "my" song, Albinoni's Adagio in G minor, I had a wonderful religion teacher in high school who helped me through a lot, and I was fortunately able to help return the favor from time to time. He was a wonderful man, and he often gave me calming music to settle my mood swings. During a long car ride, he heard Albinoni's Adagio and recognized me. He showed me the song, and that memory has since settled itself. I listen to it from time to time, feeling a kinship (or egotistical pride) with "my" song.
The melancholic strains still carry a sense of hope for me, like a smile through tears. I still feel a sense of warmth. Albinoni may have written countless compositions, but this song can be called a masterpiece, forming absolute beauty from sorrow. It continues to hit listeners.
I sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot regularly. As I sweep, garden, or wash the dishes it readily comes to my lips. My Dad says it reminds him of his old college roommate, a music major who also croaked the melody regularly. It was his favorite song, and it often brings a smile to my dad when he hears me singing in the kitchen.
Thomas Moore, an Irish poet, set endless verse to old airs, but most Irish recognize his classic love song Believe me if all those endearing young charms. It's a beautiful song penned for his wife who suffered a severe disfigurement and feared her Thomas would move on. He never did, or so the story goes, but loved her 'till the end.
My dad plays it on the piano, the highlight of his two-song repertoire, recalling how his grandfather would whistle it ad infinitum. I played it when I first moved to college, reminding myself of home. Each time I play it or sing it, I make a silent dedication to my father and grandfather. A beautiful verse.
Rachmaninoff's second piano concerto has a beautiful second movement. The tragic, delicate arpeggios of the piano are joined by flute and muted strings with breathless grace, a flawless piece of romantic composition. I passed it along to the first girl I ever fell in love with shortly before we had a fight and never spoke again. I can't divorce her memory from the melancholy movement. It's the lonesome mingling of coupled instruments and solo piano that makes me feel wistful. The rising and falling action still excites me.
Dave Brubeck's Take Five gets better each time I hear it. When I first got to college, my roommate knew I liked Brubeck, so he always played this song. It's something that helped us get along the first few days and broke the ice. I can't separate him miming the bass line or drums. It makes me smile each time.
I could go on, but I won't. I've made my point. Music permeates our lives, mingling memories with melody and a faces. The tragedies we face can live in a piano concerto, the joys in an Irish Ballad. Old faces resurface as our iPod shuffles and plays on long car rides. It's a beautiful tragedy for me, to never escape the past, never forget who I knew or who I was.
If I may end with "my" song, Albinoni's Adagio in G minor, I had a wonderful religion teacher in high school who helped me through a lot, and I was fortunately able to help return the favor from time to time. He was a wonderful man, and he often gave me calming music to settle my mood swings. During a long car ride, he heard Albinoni's Adagio and recognized me. He showed me the song, and that memory has since settled itself. I listen to it from time to time, feeling a kinship (or egotistical pride) with "my" song.
The melancholic strains still carry a sense of hope for me, like a smile through tears. I still feel a sense of warmth. Albinoni may have written countless compositions, but this song can be called a masterpiece, forming absolute beauty from sorrow. It continues to hit listeners.