Free with the Tree by Liz Flaherty

I've written about music before, which with my tin ear, two left feet, and appalling voice, isn't necessarily expected even though music is as important in our house as any possession we might have. Experts insist you should write what you know, and what I know about music is how bad I am at every facet of it.

Except listening. I'm a good listener.

And feeling. I'm good at that, too. (And dwelling on what I feel, but we're not talking about that this week.)

Terri & John Bond - Photo by Sarah Luginbill

We were at an open mic session at Gallery 15 this week and Terri and John Bond sang "Mr. Bojangles." It's an old favorite and I hadn't heard it in a long time. I sang along almost silently--at least, no one gave me any dirty looks--and the lyrics and the tempo of the song created one of the most overused terms of the century, a soft place to fall. With the sounds of Circus City Days as a suitable backdrop, the story in the words and the gentle tune opened the doors of yesterdays and good feelings. 

When I looked up "Mr. Bojangles" this morning to get information on it, I remembered a made-for-TV movie in 1977 called Sunshine Christmas when Pat Hingle sang the song for his granddaughter. It was a sweet, sentimental show that entertained and made my heart ache at the same time. What could be better?

Hearing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah," watching graduates walk in to "Pomp and Circumstance," and experiencing anyone singing "Amazing Grace" can bring me to tears and hiss "shhh!" to anyone silly enough to talk while the music's entering my heart. 

There are moments that music give us that are like gifts. Bette Midler and Wynonna Judd are singing "The Rose" on YouTube as I write this, and I remember that it was played at my brother-in-law's funeral. Laughing Bill. We still miss him. But, oh, the memories are precious.  

Music is public, it's loud, it's shared; there is music played in cars that can be heard and felt hundreds of feet away (whether you want it to be or not), and yet...and yet...it's so intensely private, too. I just listened to Linda Ronstadt singing "Silver Threads and Golden Needles" with the Eagles and danced in the office wishing I had a hairbrush out here to sing into. I would not care for anyone to have seen that, much less heard it. It would leave a mark

I dislike virtually all music--give me a break; I said virtually--released in this century, plus most of the stuff my kids played in the last one, but I know how the music of the 1960s made me feel. And I remember how my mom disliked it. I think there were a couple of years there when the only words she said to me were, "Turn it down!" That is, I guess, how generations roll. What's funny is that the songs from when my folks were young give me all kinds of warm, fuzzy feelings when I hear them. My kids like the Beatles and the Eagles, too, and I'm fairly sure they're all aware that "Good Vibrations" is anthemesque in its importance. 

Sometimes the mistakes are what you remember when you hear a song. I sang, "...just another magic Monday..." for years instead of "...just another manic Monday..." (Even now that I know better, I like magic better.) I just saw a meme on Facebook about an eight-year-old singing "...dancing queen, young and sweet, only seven teeth..." Kari Wilson and Anna Bednarski agreed that they sang it and it flowed. Anna said it might be even better than the original. Just like magic...

Duane sang a Joe Nichols song last night called "The Shade." It's a nice song and has one of my favorite lines of all time. ...the shade comes free with a tree...

We need music, don't we? We need to be better listeners, to have open hearts, to allow ourselves to feel. We also need to be foolish sometimes and sing badly into hair brush microphones, to cherish the memories that music gives us, just like the shade with a tree, free of charge. 

Thanks for listening. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody.