SCENE: A Living Room.
MUSIC: Florida Suite
(1887) by Frederick Delius
ME: “Did you know that Delius was buried at
night time?”
LSP*: “No I did not know that. Did you know
that I can’t hear Delius’s lovely music because you keep telling me stuff such
as ‘Did you know Delius was buried at night time?’”
(*LSP stands for Long
Suffering Partner, referring to my wife Karen. It will elsewhere on this blog stand
for Long Suffering Pal. Both will refer to people who have been greatly
tolerant of my music anorak-ism down through the years. Those who could not
stand it will be abbreviated as XLSP.)
I have always been fascinated
by the stories behind the music and the musicians. It was perhaps inevitable,
therefore, that I would end up spending at least a part of my professional life
writing reviews and criticism as a journalist.
I recently found
myself wondering where this interest – obsession? – came from. And whether or
not I’d have a greater appreciation of the music if I forgot all about the
backstory and just listened.
Frankly, I didn’t
fancy the prospect.
Rather than change the
habits of a lifetime, I tried instead to trace back up the tracks of my
trainspotterish proclivity for musical biography. And the line led, as it so
often does, to my father.
My old man had an
eclectic taste in music. For the
purposes of the tale at hand I’ll set the gamut as being everything from Souza
to Johnny Cash.
Johnny Cash, my old
dad was fond of saying, could sing heartfelt songs of life behind bars because
he had himself been a hardened jailbird.
 |
| My dad (top pic) and me |
This last is a PR
man’s dream. Cash served several one-night-stands in the pokey for various minor
misdemeanours (including the daft flower-picking incident that featured in the
song Starkville City Jail). Down through the years, however, these incidents
have, in the retelling, become a tale to rival anything out of Dumas. Such a
Past, of course, does no harm to The Image.
John Phillip Sousa, my
dad told me, also had a backstory.
Sousa, according to my
dad, was a man obsessed with precision. Evidence? Well that was plain in the
marches so beloved of my father. Martial music. March time. Brisk. Not a hair
out of place.
Sousa’s obsession was
such, so my dad told me, that his quest for precision in all things eventually drove
him stark staring MAD.
I have always LOVED
that story.
But I’d never sought
to question it. Until, that is, I decided to trace back up the tracks, etc, etc
(see above)…
It turns out, thanks
to just the most cursory glance at Google, that J.P Sousa lived to the ripe old
age of 77, was happily married and had three kids. The maddest thing he ever
did was that he once considered joining a circus band, but soon thought better
of it. He was fond of wearing his Marines uniform when performing, even long
after he left the military – eccentric, rather than barking, I would have
thought.
Does it make me think
any less of Sousa? Well, he was never going to feature on my Desert Island
Discs at the best of times. Does it diminish my dad, somehow? Not at all. The
fact that my old man was a bit of – ‘ow you say? – a Romancer, was one of
things I loved most about him.
I just wonder where
the story came from? Did my dad just assume that the slightly unhinged
undertone of marching music would surely drive you to the booby hatch over time?
Was it a paternal cautionary tale to take Sousa in small doses?
And, frankly, who
could take large doses of Sousa? For most listeners, a march spends most of its
time either approaching and/or receding – based on the reasonable assumption
that the listener is standing watching a parade. Thus the music never outstays
its welcome. The only folks exposed to the music for protracted periods of time
are the band members themselves. Or people who like following parades. Those
band members are often soldiers with training to toughen them up for horrors
almost as bad as martial music. Those who jig along in their wake, however,
would need to be judged in another court.
So is this another
tale of parental let downs and disappointments then? Far from it. Especially
not on Fathers’ Day some seven years after his death. It’s a thanks-giving
tale. My father’s love of music and a good yarn both – regardless of how tall
that yarn may be – are the greatest gifts he bestowed upon me. They are central
to my every living day.
Besides, it instilled
in me the central principal of British journalism, which, as any fule kno, is… why
let the truth get in the way of a good story?
Here’s the U.S Marines
giving it large on Sousa’s most famous piece…
