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My view of mankind's universal language. Samples included. |
This is a story that was inspired by my good friend Amethyst Angel🌸📝🪽 ![]() So what, you may wonder, does that title mean? Simple. If your definition of religion includes any words like uplift, nurture, encourage, delight, especially in pairings with soul, spirit, or heart, then music is a very good candidate for a universal religion. It shares with birth and death being one of the three experiences shared by every individual who has lived on this planet since recorded civilization, and almost certainly well before. With the exception of vanishingly few formats, it exists for the purpose of bringing enjoyment and happiness into the lives of all it touches, and after an unknown period that probably exceeds 20,000 years, it still succeeds admirably. Religion? I sure think so. This, then, is the story of my religious odyssey. It will probably be of interest to no one beyond my grandchildren, but that's the risk you take when you go into the public forum; ask any musician. I am not a musician, by the way. I play at a couple of instruments, and was once offered professional instruction, which I declined. I am not a musicologist, though I was being groomed to be a disc jockey in my youth, and that was definitely part of the curriculum. In much the same way that most of you aren't priests of your various faiths, I simply partake, enjoy, and hopefully, benefit. I have a few isolated memories that go back to the age of three. I know that our old memories are not photographically accurate, but I cannot remember one moment in my life when I wasn't either the owner or the custodian of some kind of music machine. I initially had a surprisingly good quality 78 rpm phonograph that was probably handed down from the dawn of electricity, and a cardboard box of kiddie records. These were the usual fare, everything from A Little Black Duck to The Three Little Pigs. But mixed in among them were three "grown-up" records. One was some kind of hillbilly opus with Y'all Come on one side, and a song about a little boy who roamed a shanty town and everybody liked, fed, and played with. Ah, but the other two! One was by Spike Jones, a comedic swing artist: Bongo, bongo, bongo, I don't want to leave the Congo, oh, no-ooo-ooo-ooo. Ah, bingle, bangle, bungle, I'm so happy in the jungle, I refuse to go! The other was by Tex Williams, and was a pure talking country song, sort of a precursor of rap: Smoke smoke smoke that cigarette. Puff puff puff it til you smoke yourself to death, then tell Saint Peter at the pearly gates that you hate to make him wait, but you've just gotta have another cigarette! And the significance of this? I was exposed to swing and country from before the age of awareness. The hilarious lyrics kept me coming back while the rhythms ingrained themselves into my natural resonance. Grandma wasn't a country fan, so that side never got developed. Big bands were on the way out in the years around 1950, but she did manage to find some on the radio, and I remember a lot of that being played. It was mostly upbeat, uptempo, jazzy, happy, and I liked it, but around 1956-57, when Buddy Holly, Bill Haley, and The Big Bopper hit the scene, all of a sudden it started sounding very dated, like something my grandmother should be listening to. I started seeking out this "rock and roll" music at every opportunity... And then Elvis arrived. You think the Beatles were big? Well, they were, but they were returning something to us that we'd had before. It was Elvis that gave us the gift in the first place. Think I'm wrong? Then, what Vegas Casino do I visit to see the John Lennon imitator? There was an entrepreneur of the era named Ed Sullivan. You youngsters have probably heard of him, too; he was the Elvis of his own field. He scoured the world to find the greatest acts in entertainment, brought them to New York, and put them on live TV Sunday nights in virtually every American home with a television. He provided our first look at Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones, the Doors; his prestige was such that, in an era when every person in the United States and the Soviet Union went to bed with the fear that our opponents might unleash nuclear Armageddon while we slept, Ed put the Bolshoi Ballet on a stage in New York. He did more for peace and understanding than all of our posturing politicians combined. 1958 was a banner year for little Jackie Tyler, too. I turned ten, and for my birthday I received my own first "grown-up" record. It was Hound Dog by Elvis Presley. The "B" side was Love Me Tender, and I think that got played once, but I wore the grooves off of Hound Dog. My musical persuasion was fixed by that gift. For Christmas, my mom, on one of her annual visits, gave me one of the early transistor radios. It must have cost more than her car, but when you're a professional gambler, there are days when you could make the Fortune 500. As well as the pioneers mentioned above, I remember Chuck Berry, ![]() ![]() I continued to listen to top-40 radio every minute that I could, and being a denizen of a Southern California beach town, somewhere toward the end of 1960 I switched it on and discovered some new kids on the block. They called themselves The Beach Boys, and they sang songs about surfing, ![]() It was around that time that I picked up a cheap guitar, a chord book and some sheet music, and started to teach myself the instrument. It's a given that you don't become a Jimmy Page by reading a book, but I made some more fundamental mistakes that limited my enjoyment of it. The biggest was that I would barely learn a song, play it over and over until I got it right once, then move on to the next one, thinking that it was now a permanent part of my repertoire. I continued this procedure for probably twenty years, and I'm pretty sure I can still play fifty or so songs in a barely recognizable fashion, but none of them well enough to even entertain me, never mind anyone else. Late 60s, early 70s, I moved on to hard rock. The real stuff, not this modern noise-fest. Real hard rock as performed by the likes of Kiss, ![]() ![]() Oh, but it was, and it always had been. Simmering right below my radar was this awesome thing called Jazz. I began the process of discovery that continues to this day in 1991, when I got the job I held for 25 years because I couldn't bear to go back to the 9-5. I worked at night. I worked on weekends. Often my only companion was my radio, and it was then that I discovered Jazz 88.3, ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() It turns out that I've always been a jazz lover, and just didn't know it. Back when I was carrying that little transistor radio around, there were a few jazz songs that made the jump to mainstream. Alley Cat, ![]() I so want to partake that thirteen years ago I bought a harmonica, the book Harmonica for Dummies, and an instructional DVD by David Hart. I was learning some fine jams when I had to have my upper teeth extracted, and whether my dentures are in or out, I can't get it right anymore, not that this is any great loss to music, but it's profoundly disappointing to me. I was never going to be a performer, but I feel the loss, nonetheless. Some people think the harmonica is a toy. Do you? Take a listen to my favorite French musician Rachelle Plas performing the famous harmonica anthem, Orange Blossom Special. ![]() And I should wrap it up. This is getting a bit long. I was going to say that that brings me up to date on this documentary look at my religion, but I feel that I have omitted far more than I've included. In closing, I'll leave you with a couple of others that have touched chords in my heart and soul. I invite you to ride the clouds with the steampunk band, Abney Park. ![]() ![]() ![]() |