“Without music, life would be a mistake” – Friedrich Nietzsche
Poor Nietzsche; he died before most of the brilliant music was even composed. But he was right, of course. Without music, what a void there would be in our lives.
I often think it is no surprise how important music is in the final act of life, with people being quite particular about what is to be played at their funeral, and even if the music isn’t to my particular taste, it always fills me with an overwhelming spirituality at the thought that a specific piece of music was so vital and so important to a person that I have, in some way, shared my life with.
And even if the person who died has not chosen the music, someone exceedingly important in their lives has considered the mass of music in our world and has chosen something particular to commemorate the people who have passed on.
Quite a difficult choice. I really hope that those close to me let me know their musical choices as choosing from the wealth of music would be an extremely difficult task. Come to think of it, perhaps everyone should add a codicil to their Will, requesting precisely what should be played at their funeral.
As for me, I am still undecided as to what I want at my funeral. I am pretty confident that I would like a Leonard Cohen song, and I am fairly sure that I would like, “If It Be Your Will”, and if anyone at my funeral does not dissolve into tears at the point of listening, then they should be ejected from the venue. I think I might also want Bruce Springsteen’s “Fever” too because it is so evocative of a vital part of my life though it is a close call between this and “The River”. And then I might have to borrow a certain song from a French singer, that whenever I hear it makes me want to spew tears of gratitude that I too did not become a passer-by.
Even the clichéd songs at funerals, if they are chosen by a loved one, can make sense and can be so important. My dear Auntie chose “My Way” for her funeral; one that many people of a certain age has chosen, and yet on hearing it, I remembered the stories of her obstinance, her determination, her resolution to do things the way that she wanted to do, and it made sense. Of course, the particular story that sprung to mind was when she wanted to listen to Old Blue Eyes on the radio one evening and despite the fact that it was her sister’s engagement party she refused to enter into the festivities until the radio programme with her idol had finished. Bless her!
There are still certain pieces of music that I cannot hear without a rush of adrenalin, passion and emotional attachment rushing through my body reminding me of a certain time or a certain event or a certain person. The association that music inspires in the mind is an incredibly powerful tool, and I cannot imagine being without it, even if my musical tastes have developed to the point when some of these songs, as a piece of music and lyrics in their own right, resonate less with me these days.
And I have the slight disadvantage of being born at a time when musical appreciation of the teenage years did not coincide with the most capable composition time of the century, to say the least!
For instance, Carly Simon’s “The Spy Who Loved Me” theme tune is a pretty basic old song, written to a tried and tested formula. Some would even say it was schmaltzy but for me it is about a specific date, a specific place and a specific person, and however middle of the road it is, I still enjoy blasting it out on the piano, being transported back to a balmy night in 1977 when my world of desire started to open.
And there are other songs that I shared with my pupils at school because I was fed up with them singing the usual formulaic rubbish that fill assembly halls throughout the country. I introduced them to Carol King and Bob Dylan and Henry Mancini and Simon and Garfunkel and even Burt Bacharach, heaven forbid! Still, at least it took them away from “The Ink is Black” and “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.
Listening to music is one thing. Sitting or standing in a room when it is being performed live is quite another. I have been fortunate enough to do that twice this week; completely different sounds, completely different settings but both equally enjoyable. The music is one thing but the thing that really excites and energises me is the audience response to live music. I am quite mesmerised by watching people as they become alive, releasing themselves from their daily inhibitions as they allow the music to overwhelm them and enable their passions and their true selves to come to the forefront.
I was watching a friend during the first performance that I went to this week. I don’t know him that well but he comes across as slightly shy, even awkward in expressing himself musically, though clearly he has an interest. The beat was strong, the bass somewhat overpowering to the point that you could hardly avoid its thumping push to make you move but it took him until almost the penultimate song to pluck up the courage to move with the mood and allow his body to respond naturally with what he was listening to. It’s quite sad really.
And then there was an opportunity later in the week to look carefully at peoples’ response to a different type of music. I was fascinated by the diversity of culture, ethnicity and age gathered together, drawn together by an interest in a certain type of music; all individual yet all conforming. Music has that power; to enable our individuality at the same time as collectively massing us in a uniform appreciation of sound.
There was the young man who instinctively moved his feet as soon as the performer placed the harmonica to his mouth. There was the buxom brunette at the bar who passionately kissed her partner as she escaped into the rhythm and soul of the music. There was the older bloke with the pathetic pony tail; his sartorial mare at once ignored when you saw how he lit up at the sounds that he heard. There were the lovers in the corner who said nothing but felt one another’s reaction without words, without even a glance at one another. It was just there.
That is the power of music, and Nietzsche is so right to say that without it in our lives, life would be a huge mistake.
Even the poor folk who are deaf can at least see the effect that music has on others, and if I were in the horrifying position of losing my sense of hearing, I hope I would still get some delight at seeing others enjoying theirs.
As well as enjoying the delights of the Desert Island Disc site, I am also currently enjoying the most brilliant of websites ever, in that I have music of any genre at the tip of my fingers. Spotify allows me to regress, diversify and learn. It enables me to wallow, to invigorate myself, to appreciate genius and to meditate.
I woke this morning rather late to find a message from my sister to tell me that Gil Scott Heron had sadly passed away. It is always upsetting to hear about somebody’s premature death, and in some ways it is a miracle that he survived as long as he did (said someone in my house today). But for some reason, I was particularly saddened to hear about this news, partly for selfish reasons in that I put off seeing him at Womad last year, thinking that he would be touring again soon. Sadly this is not to be.
But the main source of sadness is losing another great poet and musician, losing another man who expressed his soul and fought, through his compositions, to let the sound of injustice to be heard loud and clear, as well as celebrate the joys and loves through his music.
As I said, Nietzsche never heard the likes of Gil Scott Heron or the other musicians who have long since been born and departed in the previous and current centuries. But such is their influence on our world to try and make it slightly less mad and slightly more meaningful, it is no surprise that those with a passion for music feel a little more bereft at their parting.
I remember distinctly where I was when I heard about the deaths of certain musicians: I was at the bus stop watching peoples’ sadness when I heard that Lennon had been shot. Funnily enough I was at another bus stop when I heard Bob Marley had died. I remember the exact moment when the news of Elvis Presley’s death reached me and was furious with my friends for being so uncaring that they would not leave me in peace to read his obituaries. I even remember where I was, sitting outside a school, when I heard about Kirsty MaColl’s tragic accident in Mexico, leaving two young sons without a mother.
These people enter into our lives and give so much of themselves in their creativity. The world is a complete mistake without them, and I am eternally grateful that I do have ears to listen and I have the nous to actually use them to the greatest of effect.
