Crazy Notes: Lessons on Singing in Community

[a belated Father's Day post]

I love to sing. I was singing before I was talking. At least that is what they tell me. Even before I could form words, I was able to make melodies.

Maybe it's in the genes. Or maybe it was growing up surrounded by music. But which ever, the love I have for music and my propensity for it are things I inherited from my dad. He is one of those folks who can pick up an instrument and learn to play it. He plays guitar, banjo, mandolin, bass, piano, and myriad other instruments. And he sings. His voice is a bright, warm tenor. It's a voice that brought me so much joy and comfort as a child.

When I was little, Dad used to bring his guitar into our pink bedroom and sing us to sleep. He sang "The Yellow Rose of Texas" for my sister; that was her song. "You may talk of Clementine or sing of Rosalee / but the yellow rose of Texas is the only girl for me" except Dad would change the last line to "but the yellow rose of Texas, her name is Hilary".

"Sing a song about me!" I begged. I wanted a song that was my song, like Hilary had hers. So Dad thought a moment, then sang, "You Are My Sunshine". It didn't have my name (Rachel is a hard name to rhyme), but it sufficed.

I learned early on that if I wanted to stay up later than my bedtime, I would just request another song. So we sang and sang. "Puff the Magic Dragon", "Rock Island Line", "The Titanic", "Blowin' in the Wind", "The Butterfly Song", the list goes on. It took Mom a while to catch on. Soon her, "Bill, let the girls go to sleep," became, "Rachel, that's enough. This is your last song." She knew who was calling the shots there. Yes, she knew I had figured out how to get my way.

My voice was strong. And I was really young, probably no older than three, when Dad wondered if I could carry a melody on my own. So one day, as we were singing a song together, Dad broke into harmony. (Family legend tells that) I stopped singing, put my hands on my hips and asked, "Daddy, why are you singing those crazy notes?!?"

Dad laughed first. But then he began to explain to me the wonders of harmonics. He encouraged me to keep singing the melody as he sang the "crazy notes", his harmony dancing around the tune I sang out. Well, I wanted to learn how to sing "crazy notes" (it was probably a decade before I actually learned the word "harmony" because Dad had liked "crazy notes" so much that was the phrase he used). So Dad began to give me my first lessons in music theory. I learned how the warm, rich major third comforted me with soothing consonance, while the haunting minor sixth pricked my skin with goose bumps. Soon I moved to passing tones and dissonances. I began to love holding onto the tension of a minor second or a major seventh only to find resolution in the unison. Eventually I discovered the joy of counterpoint, and Dad and I would delight in singing together our independent tunes and rhythms, while remaining in harmonic communion.

As I look back on my upbringing, the lessons of the "crazy notes" went deeper than singing pretty or music theory. It actually had a lot to do with my evolution as a citizen, as an activist, and as a member of my community. Dad always stressed the importance of faithful, thoughtful citizenship. Dad sought to raise his kids to be highly independent, opinionated, self-reliant individuals. He encouraged us to form our own thoughts, beliefs, opinions, and he empowered us to speak out, to share our ideas with others, with the world around us. Yes, we learned how to hold together independent ideas and opinions while remaining in community.

Dinner time at the Frey household was filled with lively banter and often heated discourse. We would share our thoughts on God, on government, on literature, on love, on politics, on personalities. Dad wanted us to be strong-willed, opinionated, articulate, passionate people. And for better, for worse, he got his wish. And our dinner conversations served as rehearsals for our singing our hearts and minds in the wider community's chorus. We learned to hold our own in a debate. And we learned to stay in dialogue with others, even when we disagree. Call it harmonics. Call it "crazy notes". We call it relationship. And for the most part, it works.

I love to sing. And even more so, I love to share what I believe and have a lively conversation with those around me.

Sometimes when I lift my voice and speak about what I believe, proclaim what I know to be true, I find I am singing in unison with my friends and neighbors. We are united in our opinions, in our beliefs, and we lift our voices together.

Other times, I sing out, and find that while I am not singing the same notes as those around me, it sounds pretty damn good, and there is room enough in our little song for my points and your counterpoints.

But still, so very often, I feel as if every note I sing clashes in harsh dissonance to society's melodies singing the praises of consumerism, vanity, hatred, intolerance, and war. Recently, I feel as if I have been that lone voice in the wilderness, singing out, calling for peace, calling for justice. But I keep singing my song. And I hold onto that dissonance, waiting for harmonic resolution.

But oh, the hope I experience when I hear other voices singing the crazy notes, the songs of peace with me, even against the discordant voices of the world around us. And oh, what joy and comfort I feel when I hear Dad's bright, warm tenor voice joining in the chorus.