It's an unchallenged fact that I have no sense of rhythm. It's fitting, too, (in a loosely-related way) that I, half the time, can't spell the word rythm correctly. I am destined to spend a lifetime wondering about that damn h.
The whole thing mystifies me, though, because there had seemed to be a legacy of musicality that ran through at least one side of the family. Papa Joe, accomplished organist, choir director, and high school music director, took for granted that his children would absorb both his zeal and talent (if not his direct instruction.) Nana Mae, too, sang with such joy, rather softly, yet without the timidity that generally characterized her. St. Thomas Aquinas himself would not have an inkling that the woman who warbled "Amazing Grace" a solas in front of - or behind, as the case were, - a churchful of parishioners, was really a very quiet and most-unassuming woman. While I have so many memories of the two of them, memories largely shaped by their shared life of domesticity (1777 South Street) and worship (St. Thomas Aquinas Church), the presence of music with its various accoutrements was a constant.
When we urchins came onto the scene, we responded to a microcosm densely saturated with music at times sweetly pure, other times (specifically at 415 Titicut Street) harshly distorted through the simple act of turning the volume up. . . WAY up! Formal music instruction occurred in isolated, small snatches - guitar lessons for Tom and me, violin much later for Bobby.
It wasn't until I was well into my thirties that I made a serious effort to explore my capabilities in music and dance. (Dance? Where did that come from?) For four months I worked on a single song, "Turn down the lights, turn down the bed, hmmm hmmm HMMM HMMM hmmm inside my head. La la la la-la, la LA la-la." (Sorry, Bonnie.) That was the extent of my voice lessons. . . four months. . . one song. As for dance, realization didn't happen quite so quickly; I believe I was in a modern jazz class, but I can't even say that with certitude. Did I learn in six months to move with the music? Not a bit!
Which all brings me to last night, the 22nd of July, my 33rd wedding anniversary. I honestly DO love music, I just can't sing and I can dance even less than I can sing. As I have taken a real liking these days to the small, but comfortable Blue Ocean Music Hall on Salisbury Beach, I once again purchased a pair of tickets, this time to enjoy the music of Johnny A, rather a renaissance electric guitarist. It's impossible to say that his music bears a resemblance to any one artist, but I'd say his work is strongly influenced by legends Jimi Hendrix and Les Paul (think Jimi Hendrix meets Stevie Ray Vaughn meets Eric Clapton.) We had a wonderful night, but my bobbling head would not coordinate efforts with my tapping feet, as hard as I tried. Even fixating on the drummer to pick up the beat had no effect. I would get things going with my head, and - feeling that I was doing okay - I would add the foot. And that's where everything dissolved into Central Body Awkwardness. What an uncoordinated mess I am! So, if a genie appears to me, I have half a mind to burn one of my three wishes on a body with rythm, er, rhythm.
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