The healing power of music

I believe in the healing and power of music.  In May 1994 I had pneumonia, again.  In the break between finishing my senior finals and graduation, we took a car trip to New Orleans.  It was on the trip I developed one of my many cases of Bronchitis.  In those days having no insurance, I hid what I could from my family.  Not wanting to cause them to spend money on doctors and medicine for me.  I tried to treat it as best I could, but I did not get better.  Finally I was taken to the Dr. where I was diagnosed with Bronchial Pneumonia.  My second case in my young life.  I was sent home with medication and told to rest.

In a week I was no better.  Probable because in my mind being sick does not excuse you from doing things like chores.  I was up folding clothes and tending house instead of being sick in bed.  I was taken back to the Dr. and told my white count was now higher then when I had initially come in.  I was ordered to bed, and so this time I went.  I was ordered to stay in bed or I would not be allowed to walk across the stage at graduation.  I did as I was told.  Few people in my graduating class knew I was high on meds and sick as a dog the night I graduated.  I was so horse I could barely speak.  I went back to bed for another week after that night.

During that week in bed I had a transformative experience.  One morning I was watching TV and Jimmy Buffett was on promoting his new album Fruitcakes. He sang one of the most beautiful songs I had ever heard, Frenchman for the night. It is still my favorite song to this day. In my delirium of that week I kept singing the song to myself over and over again.  Its mellow feel transported me and made me feel better.  I promised myself that when I was better I would buy that album. 

I got a summer job that year and with my first paycheck I brought the album.  I still remember playing the tape in the tape player of my 1973 Mercury Comet.  I have owned that album in three incarnations, as a tape, later as a CD, and now as an MP3.  It is playing as I write this.  This album and that song made me believe in the healing power of music.

Now I had known Jimmy Buffett from his songs Margaretville and Come Monday.  My mom raised me on all the good music of her generation; The Beatles, Joe Stampley and The Uniques, Elton John, John Denver and of course the incomparable James Taylor.  Jimmy was just naturally in the mix somewhere.  I knew Jimmy was considered a one hit wonder.  I had no idea that he had gone underground, built an empire and continued to record and release underground.  Jimmy has more than 20 albums to his name now.  I own a lot of them! Although he’s never had another major commercial hit like Margaretville, he just keeps making music.

Jimmy, like James Taylor and John Denver, was not a made in Hollywood type of singer.  All three are singer, songwriters, and activists that came out of that post hippy era.  I believe Jimmy has lasted because he has something to say and real talent.  Even if he did learn to play to impress girls!  He sure has impressed this one. 

Now I love music and I love to sing.  I’ve always been a singer, but I’ve had a love hate relationship with my voice.  Nothing I love more than putting on Jimmy or James and singing to it.  As a child I sang in the choir.  Now our choir only had 3 in it, and that was on a good day.  I also started singing solos in church.  One of the ladies in our community was a music teacher and a voice coach.  She told my parents I had one of the finest voices she had ever heard.  She said to buy me a keyboard and get me to learn the notes.   But such a thing was out of our price range, so I never learned the notes or to read music.

Now I grew up old church.  We were still on the old circuit rider system, where we only met once a month, on the first Sunday of the month.  We had a part time preacher, and worshiped in a 100 year old, one roomed church with no bathrooms.  We had a his and her bush outside.  Ladies were made to wear skirts or dresses, unless you were post-menopausal and then you could wear dress slacks.  I remember coming in jeans one time and my dad turning me away from the door and telling me to go home and put on at least a skirt. 

Growing up old church meant I was limited in what I was allowed to sing.  We only had an organ.  No other instrument or microphone was allowed.  I don’t even think the pastor had a mic until much later.  No they were good at shouting and the acoustics in that place were pretty good.  You got a good echo ‘cause the ceilings were 20 ft. high. 

Now I grew up in an all white church.  We didn’t turn blacks away.  It was believed they had their churches and this was ours. They just kind of knew not to come, I guess.  I don’t even remember a black person coming to visit till I was older, like in high school or college.  I wanted to bring in taped music and sing to it.  Novelle tells me, “Oh no!  We’re not having that N*&&@# shit in my church.”  I never figured out how having recorded music added up to being black, but it did her head.   We had 11 members in our church, and 7 were in my family.  She was the matriarch and the oldest member so what she said, went. 

The only choice I had was her playing the organ, and she was bad at it.  I was limited to what she could play. She was learning out of necessity as piano and organ players are hard for small churches to find.  Later we had a much better organist and I sang with her a few times.  I was already nervous as hell.  I remember singing my first song and being devastated that no one clapped.  We, I had not realized, were not a clapping church.  I asked later what I had done wrong and why no one clapped.  It was explained to me that my song was an offering to God and they should not clap at an offering.  I don’t know.  I think it’s a stupid idea anyway.  Somebody works hard on a song, you ought to clap. 

I sang a few more times in church, but every time I did I was always corrected later on what I did wrong.  I am still fearful of singing things the wrong way.  I met Mike, who was a music major at the time, and hoped he would teach me to read music.  He ended up trying to teach me music theory instead.  It didn’t work. 

While I was in college at USL I got into singing with the choir.  They had a part where the community at large could join.  We practiced for months on a piece, for a concert at the end of the year.  I missed a few classes, and since they were 2 hours a piece I had to make it up with the professor.  I was terrified.  He was about to learn my secret that I could not read music.  That I sang by ear.  After a few minutes of him trying to tell me to hit a certain note, he closed the piano top.  He said, “I’ve been hearing something wrong coming out of your section for a long time, and I could not figure out who it was.  It’s you.  You have two options at this point.  You can bow out or you can lip sing at our concert.  You can sing, but you shouldn’t.”  I was devastated.  I, as always, was the problem.  I lip sang most of the concert, about half way through I thought, what can he do to me, I’m transferring anyway.  I opened my mouth and sang.  I saw his eyes roll but there was nothing he could do to me. 

I haven’t sung publicly for a long time.  I’ve joined some church choirs over time, but nothing solo.  Sept for one night about 10 years ago, to a room full of family and friends, and I was half drunk at the time. 

I know I feel well when I sing.  When I sing with reckless abandonment I know I feel really good.  Recently I noticed me singing again, and this time there was no pressure from the voice of perfection in my head.  I was just singing the way I wanted to and I was not chastising myself for my imperfections.  Jay even told the other night to stop singing so much ‘cause he could not concentrate.  I lit into him!  Phew on him!  Phew on all of them!  For the first time in a long time I am going to sing and I don’t care what they think.  If my tone deaf husband can sing all the time, so can I. 

Ilsa