Social Events: Homemade Music

Social Events

HOME-MADE MUSIC

It appears to me that there are families that are musical, and those that are not. We have all heard certain individuals referred to as "musical", or as having a musical talent, but I have observed that this ability tends to run along family lines. My father's family, for example, was musical. Of his many siblings, several played musical instruments; and even those that didn't were inclined to break out spontaneously singing, humming, whistling, or even doing a little shuffling dance step, often right in the middle of their work. On the other hand, I don't think I ever heard a single member of my mother's family so much as hum a tune outside of church, where it was considered to be a religious obligation to sing.

I first noticed this family trait when I was about six or seven years old. I was playing with my cousin Billy at his house, which was only eight doors up the street from ours. His father, Uncle Orville, was my mother's brother; and I had never heard him sing or even whistle. But while Billy and I were playing in his living room, his mother, Aunt Alice, began singing in the kitchen where she was preparing a meal. All of a sudden the whole house seemed to brighten up as the soft strains of that melody - half sung, half hummed - drifted through the rooms.

I'm not certain, but I think that she must have been responsible for the player piano that sat in their living room. She didn't actually play the piano, nor did any of her four offspring; but sometimes, when a group of neighborhood children were there playing games, we would gather around and sing to the music of piano rolls while Mary Grey or Mae pumped the piano. None of us had a trained voice, so if a note was too high, we would resort to a falsetto; or if it was too low, we would simply growl. Once in a while, one or two of the girls would "get fancy" and try to sing harmony or obligato, often with hilarious results. But it was always fun - this joining together in tempo and harmony. It bred a kind of fellowship or comradeship that we never achieved in our other childhood activities, which always seemed to involve some kind of competition.

As I said before, my father's family appeared to love music, of one kind or another. Sometimes my father would come in from work, clean out his lunch pail, wash and change clothes, then stand in the kitchen while my mother was preparing supper, and sing some syncopated ragtime tune, like Buffalo Gals or How're Ya' Gonna Keep 'em Down On The Farm After They've Seen Paree, while clapping his hands and tapping his toe. Then, after supper, while my mother was sewing or knitting, he would get out his banjo or harmonica, or both, and give us a little concert. He was a banjo picker, not a strummer, and he could sit and gradually work out a tune as a banjo solo. Occasionally, at my mother's request, he would sing a serious song, like Redwing or Beautiful Ohio, but his own tastes ran to songs with a humorous flavor, like The Bully Song, and especially nonsense songs like I'm The Man That Rode The Mule Around The World (I rode in Noah's ark, and I'm happy as a lark), or Oh Susannah (It rained all night the day I left, the weather it was dry), or Ol' Dan Tucker (Ol' Dan Tucker was a fine old man; he washed his face in a frying pan), or Old Joe Clark (Old Joe Clark's a fine old man; I'll tell you the reason why; he keeps good likker 'round the house, good ol' rock an' rye). He always sang this latter song with a sly smile, because he knew that the annual revival at the church would inevitably bring an evangelist with hell-fire sermons about the evils of drink.

He had a kind of "one man band" trick that he would sometimes attempt, usually with pretty good results. He had a halter that mounted around his neck and held the harmonica in place at his lips, so that his hands were free to pick the banjo. He would start out singing the verse of a song while accompanying himself on the banjo; then, with the banjo still going, he would play the verse on the harmonica.

At the time, I took this music making for granted, as a kind of hobby of his; but, as I look back on it now, I realize how much it meant to our family life by creating a happy mood when there were so many problems to be concerned about. Late in my own life I found out that as a boy he had been nicknamed "Sunny" by his friends as a tribute to his disposition. That part of his character seemed to resurface during these little musical episodes.

My father's oldest brother, Uncle Ray, was a "fair-to-middlin" guitar player. On rare occasions, when his family and ours were visiting Grandaddy Barger's farm on the same weekend, my father and Uncle Ray would both bring their musical instruments along and have a "jam session" on Saturday afternoon after the farm chores were done. While my father and Uncle Ray played, the rest of the "boys" (the other brothers Dallas, Carl, and Collins) would sit around patting their feet and singing. They only played bluegrass music with a humorous flavor, like She'll Be Comin' 'Round Th' Mountain, B'ilin' Them Cabbages Down, and Mama Don't 'llow. I remember, when I first heard them sing this latter song, that I was slightly shocked when they got to the chorus:

"I don't care what Mama don't 'llow,

Gonna play my banjo (guitar, harmonica, etc.) anyhow".

But Grandma Barger just laughed at this "foolishness". (Women used this term to describe any non-serious behavior by men.) She was completely secure in her position of authority in the family.

Aunt Lois, my father's youngest sister, was also an amateur musician. She was fairly adept at playing the accordion and the pump organ that sat in one corner of the parlor. But she never joined in the Saturday afternoon jam sessions, because her musical tastes and talents lay in a more serious direction: hymns, and ballads like Home on the Range.

On one occasion, when I was only about four years old, and we were still living in Grandma Wiley's boarding house in Roanoke, Uncle Ray came to visit, bringing not only his guitar but also two additional musicians: a fiddler and a "rhythm man". I had never seen these last two men before, but I was very young at the time. Uncle Ray sat at one end of the sofa with his guitar and my father at the other end with his banjo. The fiddler stood near Uncle Ray at his end of the sofa, and the rhythm man sat in a chair next to the fiddler. This man didn't really play an instrument. He kept time, in true hillbilly fashion, by blowing across the top of a jug or strumming on a wash board.

Apparently, they didn't expect an audience, but eventually my mother and grandmother relinquished their work and dropped into living room chairs to watch and listen, and a couple of the boarders stood at the living room door, fascinated with this "event". I was sitting on the floor in front of the musicians. I thought it was interesting that they spent as much time tuning their instruments between selections as actually playing them, and that my father and Uncle Ray kept their heels on the floor and patted their toes in time to the music, while the fiddler kept his toe on the floor and stomped his heel. There were some false starts, missed notes, and self-recriminations, but when they could get together on a tune, they really "went to town", bluegrass style.

They were not performing; not even rehearsing for a performance. They were just having fun, and the rest of us thought it was fun. I never heard a complaint or a word of criticism about this rather noisy hobby, at either grandparent's house or later, when we had our own house. Of course, at that time there were not many alternative kinds of entertainment, but I think it was just accepted as part of the family life. It saddens me when I hear of a family in which amateur music causes a conflict. When a musician is playing just for fun, not performing, then he is revealing something of his character, both by the type of music that he plays and by the way that he plays it. At these times we may get an intimate look at his inner nature that would not otherwise be revealed. In that sense, it is a gift to the listener. And, looked on the right way, it is a gift that doesn't end. Even now, when I find myself drifting into a mood of worry or depression, I can sit still for a while, and when my mind becomes quiet, I can hear that music echoing clearly down the halls of time, through all the years and all the decades - the picked strings of the five-string banjo, and my father's voice singing

"Oh, I rode in Noah's ark, and I'm happy as a lark, I'm th' man that rode th' mule around th' world.

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