Cory Swanson
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- May 19, 2016
- Messages
- 453
Here is the opening to my story about musicologists. Does this make you want to read more? I worry about my beginnings.
Percy loved music, just like me. In fact, the more I learn about him, the more I am sure that he was a kindred spirit, that we are connected somehow.
Sadly, I never got to meet Percy. He died in White Plains, New York, several decades before I was born, old and alone and far from home.
Which is what I am now. Old and alone and far from home. But not dead. At least not yet. The sky outside my window as I write this is gray and dreary and I sometimes wonder what home is to me anymore. Is it a place? Is it mom’s house? Is it really a thing anymore, or just an idea? Or even a person? Well, regardless, I’m not there right now. Far from it, but this apartment will have to do for now. Not a lot of options, anyway.
But back to Percy. I first became acquainted with him through his music. I was in high school band, clarinet in my mouth, pimples on my forehead. We were reading through Lincolnshire Posy and my hand shot into the air.
“Maestro,” I called when our band director didn’t call on me as immediately as I felt I deserved. What a dweeb I was. Mr. Dallinbeck had never asked to be called anything as pompous as ‘Maestro.’ I thought I was being cool.
“Yes, sir Tim,” he shot back, attempting to match my pompous tone with humor. “What can I help you with?”
I rolled my eyes at his weirdness. “What is ‘trotting speed, a bit pert?’”
“That’s the tempo marking. You see, Percy Grainger didn’t like Italian terms in music. He felt everything should be English with a capital ‘E’ even though he was Australian. What’s funny to me, though, is how the ‘English’ terms are colloquial. He was referring to horses, which your average 1920’s musician was probably familiar with. But now, no one has a horse, so the term falls flat. Just take my tempo and you’ll be fine.”
I won’t lie, I was impressed with Mr. Dallinbeck. He knew his Grainger. I cornered him in his office during my lunch hour and he rhapsodized about Grainger until he had to write me a late pass to P.E. I can point to that afternoon as the moment when the door to the rest of my life opened. Hanging on that door was a giant flashing neon sign that read ‘Musicology.’ I knew from that point on that it would never be enough for me to just play music. I wanted to know the people who made it. Why did they make it? Where did they come from? These questions led to other questions, and I found myself hunting old folk songs through the stacks and out into the countryside through grad school and beyond.
Percy invented the sports bra because he wanted to go jogging with his girlfriend. Isn’t that crazy? What a weird and eccentric dude. I still get giddy when I think about him. I love telling people about him and watching their eyes get wide. It’s not like when you talk about Mozart and Salieri. People gloss over when you talk about them. You might as well be describing the plot of a Jane Austen novel when you talk about those guys. But Percy is so weird, you can’t help but do a double take.
But all of that is not why I sat down to write today. I am writing, of course, because of Percy. But not just because of him. Through Percy, I have experienced so much more.
I hope you will excuse the non-academic tone of this piece. Truth be told, I don’t care to write that way. Life is too short to tell your stories according to some perceived set of rules. Plus, this story will not scratch your academic itch. It began like that, but it doesn't end there.
I don’t even really know why I’m writing this down at all. It’s not going to get published in the Journal of Musicology. It’s not going to be believable, for that matter. I guess I’m writing it for posterity. And because a story like this demands to be told. It’s just too good not to tell.
Percy loved music, just like me. In fact, the more I learn about him, the more I am sure that he was a kindred spirit, that we are connected somehow.
Sadly, I never got to meet Percy. He died in White Plains, New York, several decades before I was born, old and alone and far from home.
Which is what I am now. Old and alone and far from home. But not dead. At least not yet. The sky outside my window as I write this is gray and dreary and I sometimes wonder what home is to me anymore. Is it a place? Is it mom’s house? Is it really a thing anymore, or just an idea? Or even a person? Well, regardless, I’m not there right now. Far from it, but this apartment will have to do for now. Not a lot of options, anyway.
But back to Percy. I first became acquainted with him through his music. I was in high school band, clarinet in my mouth, pimples on my forehead. We were reading through Lincolnshire Posy and my hand shot into the air.
“Maestro,” I called when our band director didn’t call on me as immediately as I felt I deserved. What a dweeb I was. Mr. Dallinbeck had never asked to be called anything as pompous as ‘Maestro.’ I thought I was being cool.
“Yes, sir Tim,” he shot back, attempting to match my pompous tone with humor. “What can I help you with?”
I rolled my eyes at his weirdness. “What is ‘trotting speed, a bit pert?’”
“That’s the tempo marking. You see, Percy Grainger didn’t like Italian terms in music. He felt everything should be English with a capital ‘E’ even though he was Australian. What’s funny to me, though, is how the ‘English’ terms are colloquial. He was referring to horses, which your average 1920’s musician was probably familiar with. But now, no one has a horse, so the term falls flat. Just take my tempo and you’ll be fine.”
I won’t lie, I was impressed with Mr. Dallinbeck. He knew his Grainger. I cornered him in his office during my lunch hour and he rhapsodized about Grainger until he had to write me a late pass to P.E. I can point to that afternoon as the moment when the door to the rest of my life opened. Hanging on that door was a giant flashing neon sign that read ‘Musicology.’ I knew from that point on that it would never be enough for me to just play music. I wanted to know the people who made it. Why did they make it? Where did they come from? These questions led to other questions, and I found myself hunting old folk songs through the stacks and out into the countryside through grad school and beyond.
Percy invented the sports bra because he wanted to go jogging with his girlfriend. Isn’t that crazy? What a weird and eccentric dude. I still get giddy when I think about him. I love telling people about him and watching their eyes get wide. It’s not like when you talk about Mozart and Salieri. People gloss over when you talk about them. You might as well be describing the plot of a Jane Austen novel when you talk about those guys. But Percy is so weird, you can’t help but do a double take.
But all of that is not why I sat down to write today. I am writing, of course, because of Percy. But not just because of him. Through Percy, I have experienced so much more.
I hope you will excuse the non-academic tone of this piece. Truth be told, I don’t care to write that way. Life is too short to tell your stories according to some perceived set of rules. Plus, this story will not scratch your academic itch. It began like that, but it doesn't end there.
I don’t even really know why I’m writing this down at all. It’s not going to get published in the Journal of Musicology. It’s not going to be believable, for that matter. I guess I’m writing it for posterity. And because a story like this demands to be told. It’s just too good not to tell.