While it IS raining here today, it is nowhere near the volume necessary to extinguish the scorch. The smoke that chokes us is back, a reminder of how fragile our environment truly is. We had a birthday ride planned for tomorrow, celebrating tenure by mileage, meaning that our double Chilly Hilly would total 66 miles, hence paying homage to those of us born in August of ’52 and ’53. You know the good old days of Eisenhower and his chilling accuracy in warning us of the military-industrial complex. We have canceled the ride due to unhealthy air quality, substituting instead an indoor movie ride. We will postpone the 66 miler until next week.
Another incident occurred this morning that is, perhaps, the antithesis of the sadness incurred by the devastating results of our ignorance and arrogance regarding climate change. As you perhaps know I try to choreograph a symbolic theme into my set lists for musical accompaniment to my spin classes. Somewhere over the course of this week a song popped into my consciousness like my faithful old toaster gleefully announcing that the bagels are ready. That song has always appealed to my sense of dramatic pathos, and while not exactly a rousing anthem of 4/4 hand clapping bravado, it IS a cool tune, one that only a hardened partially deaf cynic would fail to appreciate. The theme was to be happiness and sadness in musical pop culture.
Are you thinking of a song that fills this advance billing? The Ghetto? Higher Ground? Sky Pilot? Try? Any number of Adel chart toppers? Go back further. Go back to 1964. Go back to the Four Seasons. Go back to Frankie Valli. Listen to Dawn (go away).
That high lonesome peak at the final chorus still, after all these years, causes the hair to bristle on the back of my neck. If ever there was a tune to illustrate the power of a pop song, I humbly submit this one to be that.
Back to the main story. I play Dawn this morning in class, a first, setting the stage by predicting the wholesome goodness in the noble act of the song’s protagonist and the impeccable harmonic execution delivered by Mr. Valli. The original rock opera aria if ever there was, I say, also requesting the audience to appreciate the pitch, timbre and reach of those impossible notes some three octaves north of the standard human range absolutely nailed in its dramatic conclusion.
We are jamming gears in a protocol I call the Ramp, working and grooving with the melody when I hear another voice in the room. Seems one of our gals, a classically trained pianist, jazz player and mother to a opera soprano, is harmonizing with Frankie, note for note, in perfect pitch harmony. I am in awe. Not only does it take a humongous amount of courage and a ton of talent but she is singing as we are hammering out serious wattage almost 45 minutes into a killer set.
I turn the music down and she takes the lead. THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL MOMENT. The tune ends with a standing ovation. I am blown away.
The rains may not fully cleanse our burning planet today, the poisonous smoke may throttle plant growth and our corrupt government will ignore Ike’s dire prediction for a pocketful of cash, but today a few very lucky spinners witnessed all the good possible in the human spirit.
It only took one song.
No comments:
Post a Comment