On giving thanks
How a chance encounter with a Victoria Barbershop Quartet got me into the spirit
As you know, I haven’t been able to find the proper Thanksgiving mood lately. Instead, I am profoundly upset, angry and fearful about what my society has become, what my fellow humans are doing to each other and the general stupidity of what passes for public life these days.
It’s not that I enjoy feeling like that, but until this morning, thanksgiving simply wasn’t in me. But I set off on my almost daily walk to the nearby Government House Garden. It’s a huge park, with two rose gardens, flower beds and enormous old trees. It was about ten in the morning, still cool, the sun halfway up, a few people walking their dogs, giving me nods, smiles or barely audible hellos. The dew glistening on the broad lawns, a sense of calm reigned among the roses, philodendrons, and the Garry Oaks. This year these oaks that grow nowhere else, are throwing down an unusually generous crop of acorns. The squirrels are looking fat and content, and the ground crackles with acorns breaking underfoot. I am walking and breathing deeply when from somewhere nearby, I hear singing. Almost automatically, I follow the sounds and there they are, four men, singing a cappella in a little open air building set in the middle of the park.
The first song was one I didn’t recognize, but then after I clapped and cheered them on, they sang Hallelujah, with me sometimes joining in. It was such a wonderful rendition, full of shimmering surprises and harmonies. When that ended, we got into a short conversation, and they told me they were enjoying their first live practice, finally away from Zoom. And that they were called The Secret Foursome. And then they said, we’ll sing one more for you. Oh, yes, please!
The last song was Billy Joel’s Goodnight my angel, now it’s time to sleep, a haunting song that could be a lullaby or perhaps something more: to me, it was about the final goodbye that comes to us all, eventually. A heartfelt cry about letting go, about death. The leader of the group told me that he teared up when he first heard it, and I said, you got the message. Then the tears sprang into my eyes, and I nearly wept right there. Because suddenly I was full of that elusive feeling of thanksgiving, which I haven’t felt since the pandemic began. Once again, it was live music that reminded me that there is always hope, there is fellowship, there is human connection. I thanked them, threw them kisses and generally became an instant fan. As I turned to go, they called after me that by being an appreciative audience of one, I had given them something wonderful, too.
And then I went home and really cried, while listening to the original Leonard Cohen version of Hallelujah. I can’t think of a more perfect Thanksgiving, and I want to say to all the musicians and starved audiences: never give up your right to be a community, connecting through music. It’s a precious gift, and it is up to us to resurrect and honour it, once again.
Music is a balm for me as well, and helps me deal with the madness of the moment. I have a friend who’s a musician…over the pandemic he got money from the government to compensate with the loss of venues to play in. In effect, being paid not to play. Thanks for this poignant piece.
Being paid not to play; could be another post on music...and all the other things we're not doing.