NATURAL MUSICIANS

I have always admired people who had musical ability—especially the whistlers. Now, I’m not talking about the son of that old bat in the rocking chair, in that old picture we have all seen. I’m talking about people who learned to purse their lips for something besides smooching and blowing smoke rings, and having pretty music come out of their pie hole. I have tried all of my life to whistle, but I have always sounded like a leaky iron lung on its last leg, and it sent my wife dashing for the nightstand—looking for my inhaler. Even my little grandkids come and tell me, “Grandpa, hold your mouth like this,” and they proceed to imitate a sunfish sucking a worm. When I tell them “I just can’t do it,” they say, “That’s just dumb, grandpa.” To them, whistling is like a baby nursing. No one tells them how to do it—they just do it. Over the years, there have been musicians I have heard that sounded like a canary once they got going. I often wanted to tackle them, take my Mag-Light Flashlight, and take a long look down their throats; because there is something in there that I got screwed out of when I was born. Their voice boxes must look like the business end, of a clarinet.

My mother, during my younger years, decided that I would carry the musical hopes of the family into the next century, so she made me sing in the church choir. Now the credentials necessary to sing in our church choir were—that you had to not be a mute, and you must be able to read words out of music books. For those who could sing, it was an enjoyable experience. For me, it was one cut above a colonoscopy—and I may have been better off singing out of that end of me in the first place. I have noticed as I age, and depending on my diet, I can get quite musical down there, but I am getting off the subject here so that’s the end of that. Besides, my friend edits this stuff and her sense of humor is not always like mine. 

During a particular Christmas Pageant at the church, I was goosed by the boy behind me, and I hit a high G that only dogs and the maestro could hear. Shortly thereafter, the choir director told me she had too many Irish tenors already, and maybe it was time to give it a rest for a while. One of the other points of contention for me, in the church choir, was that this was the birth of rock and roll for me. These people were still singing about bringing in the sheaves, and I had no idea what they were.  So I would put my book in front of my face and hum “Rock around the Clock,” while they all swayed and sang their lungs out somewhere on the banks of the River Jordan. Meanwhile, I was singing backup to Bill Bailey and The Comets, immersed in my own little world and cussing out good old Mom. Later—again my mother’s idea—I played in the high school band. I was the only trumpet player with duct tape over the end of his horn. The band director told me he was trying out some new tones. The backpressure of blowing into that muted horn must have done something to me because, even today, just blowing up a balloon gets me lightheaded, and off in the distance I hear John Philipp Sousa saying, “Oh, my God.” I must say though, that I did learn something about music, and even today my rendition of “Danny Boy,” sung in the shower, can bring tears to my eyes and the dog has been known to join in with me.  It’s funny how those animals have an ear for talent.