1.
I had a bout of insomnia a few nights back, during which I was an intermittent visitor to the realms of Sleep, Awake, and In Between. It was in the In Between state when the song came to me, whole and without any effort. It was only later that I realized how odd this was. I hadn't heard the song for over fifty years; in addition, it's about as popular as the national anthem of Kazakhstan is in the United States. Its obscurity assured me that I hadn't heard the slightest reference to it in all those years. That I remembered not only the tune but the words was odder yet; I cannot remember my grandfather singing it, and if he didn't, no one else in my family could have. I am certain that I never heard a recording of it, or heard the tune played on the radio; it was a vaudeville tune that predated World War I and was no more popular when I was a teen than the Kazakh anthem. I do, however, remember listening to Grandfather recite the lyrics, after he had grown too old to sing and accompany himself on the guitar. He must have sung it to us years before that--I have no recollection of it, but how else would I know the tune so well after half a century?
My brain was obviously trying to tell me something. A few hours later, when I got up, it directed me to the piano. My fingers proceeded to play the song I never played before while my voice sang the song I never sang before. I felt I had nothing to do with it.
Tears came to my eyes for several reasons. I recalled a song from a long time ago. I wrote a song a short time ago. Fifty years from now, all the coins in my memory bank will be selfless, disembodied atoms. I felt nostalgic because I am coming to the end of the tunnel--(The other side just better not be New Jersey, where I started.) I also shed a tear for my grandfather, whom I hadn't thought about for a long, long time. (There are only about three or four people left on Earth, who, if hard pressed, might recall that he once existed.) I also shed a tear of delight--the song is absolutely wacky in a Jabberwocky-sort of way.
Modest musicality is part of my inheritance. Immoderate Jabberwockiness is, too. I suddenly realized whom I got both traits from: that often stern yet quintessential English eccentric who was my grandfather.
I am writing this little piece to commemorate the three types of tear I shed at the piano: memories of my grandfather; nostalgia for the past and acceptance of a limited future, and, finally, delight in jabberwokiness.
(I am, most of all, dear reader, writing it for you.) A recording of my singing the song will be attached at the end of this essay--My conscience demands that I provide a warning at this point to those with talent; you might want to click yourself out of my amateur world while you still have the chance.
First a few words about my grandfather, Walter Hammond, 1889-1972.
2. My Eccentric and Musical Grandfather
My great-grandparents were James Hammond and Hannah--(I don't know what her maiden name was; I'm not even quite sure of her first name.) They lived downstairs in an Upstairs Downstairs mansion in the vicinity of Stockport, near Manchester, England. She was the head cook; he was the head butler. There were many servants; they all worked to keep the upstairs royalty happy. Then my great-grandparents disappeared!
Did James make Hannah pregnant? I'm not sure. I am sure, though, that they abruptly went off to America without telling anyone a word. My family has a very long working-class tradition of sub-par communication skills.
They came to New York, where my great-grandfather peddled eggs on the lower East Side. My great-grandmother continued to cook apparently wonderful meals, but our family lost this tradition almost entirely. She was so vain--or so unsure of herself which is often just about the same thing--that she refused to ever share a recipe. The eccentricities begin to accumulate.
After a few years, they decided to return to England for a visit, again unannounced. Everyone was astounded to see them--they showed them clippings from the paper about them. Was James Hammond Murdered? The police had searched and searched--they even drained a little lake--I'm not kidding! Foul play was suspected--I don't think my great-grandparents were particularly likeable. I imagine them, in true English fashion, not to have reacted much when they encountered all this fuss. After a short stay, they disappeared again, never to return to their native land. What can I say?
My grandparents--they were my maternal grandparent--never made it to high school. I believe they quit school around the fifth grade. My grandfather continued the downstairs tradition by starting a business; rich people from the upper East and West sides brought in their bibelots--mostly vases--which he fashioned into fancy lamps and such. The shop was on 49th Street; he commuted every day from the house in Jersey City where we all--grandparents, father, mother, brother and I--lived. He was very successful in between alcoholic binges. He was the breadwinner for all of us.
My grandfather was the only--except for, eventually, me--member of our family that played a musical instrument.. He had taught himself how to play guitar and would sing to his own accompaniment. Mind you, music was not an everyday part of our family life; I only can recall two or three occasions when he sang. By the time I became a teen, his guitar had long since vanished; he could no longer play--eek! at just about the age I am now--due to arthritis. I remember listening to him sing and strum, when I was very young, at a gathering of friends. I don't remember what he played, but I do remember that he was fluent and had no problem fishing around for chords.
I can't understand why he never taught me to play. I also don't understand why I never asked him. Oh, those communication skills!
Although I was only about five at the time of the above-mentioned gathering of friends, I recall a salient characteristic of his performance: he was confident, damn sure of himself. (I am fairly free of performance anxiety myself, a trait, I do not doubt, I inherited from him.)
My grandfather thought he had a lot of talent. If there was a stage anywhere, he would invariably and inevitably be on it. His hubris was a source of acute embarrassment for my mother. If you read my blog entry, "Romney and the Triumph of the Egg," you already know what I mean. If you haven't, let me recount an anecdote contained therein. My mother was stopped by a friend while she was rushing out of an assembly of some sort. "Stop, Mabel--don't leave now! Don't you know that your father is on the stage, about to perform?" My mother, without missing a beat, replied, "Yes, I know. That's why I gotta leave now!"
After my grandfather grew very old, he decided to make his professional debut as a performer. In those days, there was a popular variety show called the Merv Griffin Show. (Griffin was known for saying, "I'll be back after this message," before breaking for a commercial. For his tombstone he chose this epitaph: "I will NOT be back after this message!") Although Grandfather could no longer sing or play the guitar, he was determined to get on the show. What was his act going to be? You'll never guess it: he planned on reciting, with tremendous sentiment and self-satisfaction, zany lyrics of songs from the beginning of the 20th century, such as those to Under The Chicken Tree. (My grand aunt, Clara, a relative of my grandmother, had given him her collection of sheet music which she collected from about 1890 to the end of the Great War. I believe she played the piano--I still have the sheet music--hey! I guess there was another musical person in the family after all. The music to Under the Chicken Tree was, by the way, part of her collection.)
He thought he was giving a brilliant performance when he recited lyrics so dated that they had become, albeit unintentionally, hilarious. I remember watching him practice one before the mirror:
Tetrazini has a horse,
A horse that can't be beat;
And Mildred Schnecky is a hit
Because of her big feet...
His performances, were, of course, pitiful.
Believe it or not, he actually got an audition for the Merv Griffin Show. He bought a little carrying case, in which he stored his material and of which he was very proud. Working-class people in those days never dreamed of ever owning a little carrying case. Self-absorbed and happy as a toddler, he looked like he was getting ready to compete for cake at a Senior Center's Show and Tell.
He never told us the result of this interview, but we all knew what it was. After that, he gave up his ambitions and began to age more rapidly, until the day he, too, like his parents, disappeared.
Was he musical? Yes. Eccentric? You betcha.
3, Under The Chicken Tree
Most standards are the musings of Judy Garland-like outpouring hearts; this non-standard is the cluckings of Murakami-like downpouring hens. Dating from the 1890s, it is very much in the vaudeville tradition, silliness of an almost English variety. The subject is--Well, the time has come for you to find that out. (Don't expect much--it's over the top, not Over The Rainbow.)
4. The Performance
5. Conclusion
If you haven't found anything in the essay to amuse you, I apologize. You are now free to return to your latest page-turner on inferential statistics. If you enjoyed the blog--Congratulations! Be proud of your Wocky within. My advice to you, dear fellow Borogove: don't let vicissitudes bury your mimsy! Thanks in part to my grandfather, I never shall, that's for sure.
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