The camera was in position. The lighting was okay. The headjoint was adjusted so that my A sounded at 440. The accompaniment was looped on Musescore and ready to go. It was time to press record. I took a deep breath and told myself to calm the frick down.
A week back I had my final visit with the cardiac surgeon. We talked about what I could and couldn’t do. Driving: yes. (Elation!) Lifting objects over 10 pounds and doing abdominal crunches: not yet. (Oh well.) Indulging in my favorite meal of grilled cheese sandwiches and merlot: hell no. (Sadness.) I saved the most urgent topic for last. These days doctors are trained to pay extra attention to “hand on the door” questions (it’s gotta be true, I saw it on an episode of House, plus an internet search confirms it). “Can I go back to playing flute, clarinet, and piano?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “They don’t weigh over 10 pounds.”
The snarky bit of me thought, the piano’s about 500 pounds, and the bass clarinet’s heavy too, but the rest of me made sure to keep my face calm and say that’s great, thanks. I had been waiting for this moment ever since they pulled the breathing tube out of my throat. (0/10, do not recommend)
When I got home I found myself hesitant to pick up my instruments. How rusty would I be? Would I even remember how to play after more than a month off?
An often-cited consequence of a life-changing experience is a rethink of your before-life. I’ve had a few life-changing experiences that didn’t, as it turned out, change my life. Not permanently. I’d come out of my recent ordeal clear that music would still be central to my being. Both because I love it and because I’m too old to find another way of making a living. But I was anxious about clarinet, where I needed to do a fair amount of work, and most especially flute. Flute is a fragile-seeming beast with long, sharp teeth. I love how it sounds and how it feels to play, but it doesn’t come naturally to me.
As I thought about the mountain of work that lay ahead, I reminded myself about what music does for me. It’s a joy in itself, especially music that I’ve heard often that’s accreted memories. My favorite pieces can make me blissful, amazed, amused, tearful. It’s similar to the experience of reading. When I was a kid, from eight years old onward, I reread Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series obsessively. Every time I reached the bit where the heroes are deep in the mines of Moria I knew what was coming. The terrible secrets they uncover. The drums of their pursuers. The wizard Gandalf standing on a bridge over a chasm, battling a Balrog, being dragged down into the abyss while crying to his companions “Fly, you fools!” I knew that Gandalf would survive, that a happy ending would come. Still, I sobbed every time I read the passage. I looked forward to the release of the tears. Release from what? I’m not sure. I will give up grilled cheese sandwiches and merlot, but not books and music.
I screwed my courage to the sticking point. At the beginning of 2024 I’d planned to publish a video per month on my flute community. I decided to keep to this plan. The end of April was fast approaching, so my goal for Week One of flute playing was to record a simple song. Harder than it looked, but I got there. The first day I was tired and dizzy after five minutes of practice. The next day I played a bit longer.
The third day I decided that I’d arrange “You are My Sunshine,” the song that had run through my head as I left the surgeon’s office. The full lyrics are a plea to a lover not to leave, and the chorus makes sense with that, but on its own is more upbeat. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know, Dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Verse and chorus use the same melody, and there’s no bridge. It’s not a complicated melody, reminiscent of a nursery song. Easy to remember the words, easy to sing along with the tune. There’s something about it, nonetheless. I wrote a bare-bones version for flute, clarinet, cello, and piano.
Sunshine comes with some caveats. The song dates back to the 1930s. The authorship is disputed, with the most credible candidates being Paul Rice and Oliver Hood. One of the song’s copyright holders, Jimmie Davis, twice became the virulently segregationist governor of Louisiana. He used the tune in his election campaigns. At least Davis didn’t write the song. The tune has been recorded by hundreds of other artists. And, now, by me.
I pulled myself together and did a few takes of “You are My Sunshine,” posting the best one to the flute group. No missed notes, but short on breath control. Tone airier than I’d like. I didn’t achieve perfection, but I made my little goal and felt better from doing that.
The response was surprising. For many listeners the song triggered memories of lullabies and being cared for. One person wrote that she’d been singing Sunshine every day to her sister, who is currently in hospice care, and asked if it was okay to share the video with her. (Of course, I said.)
Goodbye once more, grilled cheese and merlot. Hanging on for dear life to books, and music, and memories.
the jeanSpace 