A sad song in a major key

Mary Chapin Carpenter, Stones In The Road

When my Dad, his brothers, their Apland cousins, and their Apland uncles got together, it was a sight to see. They all had stories to tell, and as a matter of family honor, it just wouldn't do to be left in the dust with a lame-0 story. So, the batteries were taken out of the "Meter of Truth and Accuracy" and it was turned to face the wall, next to the "Cuckoo Clock of Reticence and Restraint". And the stories and laughter got louder and louder over the course of an afternoon and evening, all with the purpose of keeping each other enthralled with as much intensity as they could muster. In the fall of 1981, when my classmates and I were required to take speech class, taught by Mrs. K., I discovered that the Apland Gene of Extroversion had kicked in. I loved giving speeches. Even though I had to turn the Meter back on and modify the settings of the Cuckoo Clock.

One of our speeches was an “informative” speech, and, having somewhat recently become acquainted with classical music, I opted to speak about Arthur Fiedler from the Boston Pops, he having passed away only two years previous. This type of speech required us to have a prop. I found in a store, and asked my mom to purchase, a Boston Pops greatest hits two-record LP to use for a prop. It had Mr. Fiedler’s head right on the cover. “Rhapsody in Blue” was on the album with Earl Wild as the pianist. “Jalousie”, “Wine, Women, and Song”, and “I Want To Hold Your Hand” were some of the others.

This was a big deal. I can count on one hand the number of LP’s that were purchased over the course of 15 years in our household. My mom wasn’t too happy about this purchase. But I made the case that it was for speech class and I wanted to hear the “Rhapsody in Blue”. I got an “A” on my speech. That made Mom smile a little. And she also heard me play the album over and over and over. She smiled a little more. I’m sure that I wore the thing out. It’s long since gone. I don’t know exactly when my parents and I discovered “Evening at Pops” on PBS, but it had been waiting for us for a long time.

In 1970, PBS contracted the Boston Pops to produce a series of concerts that would be lighter than the traditional fare that is typically served up by an orchestra. The idea was inspired and it caught on. And for 35 years this band of musicians met their TV public halfway, declaring, “Yeah, we’re stuffy, but not too stuffy. Let us play our music for you. Then, give us your Beatles, give us your R and B, give us your Presley, Buddy Holly, and The Big Bopper. Then watch out. 'Cause you ain't heard nothin' yet.” In 2005, however, they stopped. The Boston Pops was footing the bill for the productions and they were costing nearly a million dollars for each broadcast.

When we started watching, John Williams had the baton. It was broadcast on Wednesday nights on South Dakota Public Broadcasting at 8 PM. We came in early from the field so that we could watch. The guests were phenomenal. And they came from all genres: Opera, classical, jazz, country, folk, broadway.

The guest that I remember the most was Mary Chapin Carpenter. She doesn’t like to be labeled as a country singer, but that’s the way she sings. Her star was rising and she had just won a Grammy for Album of the Year. And she looked incredible. There must have been five or six songs that featured the Boston Pops, Ms. Chapin Carpenter and her guitar with each song better than the one before. And then she sang her solo number. No orchestra. Nobody else. Just her. And her guitar. It was called “Where Time Stands Still”. My heart must have been ripe to be torn because I was stunned. I was bereft of speech. I was transformed. I was transfixed. The sentiment of the song and the melody and harmony had a relationship that I had never before encountered. Have you ever heard a song for the first time and known what it was all about without listening to a single word? When Mom and Dad would start to doze about halfway through the program it usually annoyed me. But not this night. I was thankful that they were out because I sat in the rocking chair and sobbed. I had never had a response to music like this before. I needed this album; if only for that song.

There is not a weak track on this CD. I don’t usually buy into the general public’s assessment of what makes an album great. But Joe Q Public earned my respect this day. She sings a little bluegrass. She gets a little rock-a-billy. She scolds us a little bit. And she sings a curious song called “John Doe No. 24”. It was written by her and tells a story that she had read in the newspaper of a man who was found in Illinois, blind and deaf. No clue where he came from. The spin that she puts on the song is from his point of view. The song features Brandford Marsalis on soprano saxophone.

To couch a profoundly sad song within the confines of a major key is a rare gift. It’s kind of like eating kettle corn; it’s salty, it’s sweet, and it’s not supposed to work, but mmMMmmmmmm...

In 1996, my friend Chad H. and I went to Boston for a few days. He’s a baseball fan and I’m stuffy. He went with me to the Pops. I went with him to Fenway Park. They were both spectacular. But I think I liked the game better.

Credits: To Mrs. K., for listening to me gush about the Rachmaninoff Third Piano Concerto and taking home a recording I lent her and listening to as much as she could stand. To the Beatles, for giving the Boston Pops a reason to be wild. Well, a little wild.

Checkup: I lost 2 pounds.