Eclectic Company: How Soon I Forget

This week I ran into my editor at dinner, and that reminded me it was column deadline week. A few hours later, she sent an email around to the columnists with the reminder that it’s deadline week. I was startled to realize I’d already forgotten that, only a few hours after being reminded by the memory aid of actually seeing and speaking to her. Sheesh. Now I feel I have to do some serious memory exercises, or take up a new hobby like learning to play bouree, to shake up my atrophying mind.

We’re always being told that brain fitness should be part of our exercise regimes as we age, and that we should learn something new because study keeps our brains nimble; often the recommendation is to take up a musical instrument. I could actually practice my guitar playing. That would count, right? And then I could bring it to open mics or jam sessions, and keep nimbler trying to keep up with other musicians . . .

Actually, I already have plans to practice the chords and runs for songs I want to sing at occasional musical jams, but I forget to do it, as I did earlier this week. We had a small birthday pizza-homemade ice cream-and-jam session for painter and fiddler Jill King, who’s one of the old-timey and bluegrass jammers in a small like-minded crowd here in town. It was a school night, so we didn’t play too late, but we sang a lot of songs we all like, including that Kingston Trio novelty number “The MTA Song [Will He Ever Return?],” and a whole bunch of country gospel songs in harmony. That night, with multi-instrumentalists in the house, we had four fiddlers, five guitarists, and two banjo players, so everyone who wanted to could trade off an instrument leaving at least one person playing rhythm. Partway through the evening, those who know the song played an instrumental they know as “Mary’s Waltz,” which I know lyrics for under the title “Margaret’s Waltz.” When I say I know lyrics, what I mean is I can remember the general outline of the chorus, and I can find lyrics on my iPhone faster than you can say “Google.” Which I did, to much merriment, and we agreed that next time we get together, we should have those lyrics printed out, so we can all sing along. I remember that now, and hope I remember it then, too.

There are folksong societies all over the country, and one feature of these groups is that they get together occasionally or regularly to jam and sing. Many of these groups use a fine aid to memory called Rise Up Singing: The Group Singing Songbook, ed. Peter Blood & Annie Patterson, that has lyrics and guitar chords for 1,200 songs, ranging from popular folksongs, Gospel, Beatles, political (mostly lefty) numbers, and songs by singer/writers of the ‘60s through the ‘90s to old vaudeville and patriotic numbers. It’s published by Sing Out!, the quarterly folksong magazine that includes lead sheets and lyrics for 20 or so great songs each issue. www.singout.org. Rise Up is supposed to prime the pump, and when I’m in a group, reminding myself of lyrics for songs I like that aren’t in the book, that’s what it does. I keep saying that I should write down the words and music for songs when I remember them, but I forget that every time I leave one of those sessions musically sated until the next time.

Another thing that happened this week was that I listened to 92.9 The Lake and heard some favorite songs from the ‘60s and ‘70s. Which got me thinking: When I hear an old familiar song, usually on the radio, but sometimes through Pandora (that fabulous website that takes the pulse of your taste and makes up an ongoing mix tape of related music free-floating around the sound of a particular performer – say, Joni Mitchell, for example), I am thrust back into my teen years, and I can almost smell the fall colors and the sweaty jocks out on the football field. Which may be why my current taste runs to bands whose sounds remind me of bands I loved years ago. When I hear them, I try to listen for the back announcer, so I can go buy them, but I rarely do either. I tell myself, if only I could remember their names, I could download them onto my iTunes, or watch them on youtube. How many times did I hear Fleet Foxes before my editor said I should check them out, and when I finally did, realized they were the band I had been trying to find the name for?

For some reason, I was just reminded of the last tour of The Who, which actually happened about five times I think over eight years or so, as the band slowly, painfully, ground themselves to a halt. My first ex-husband and I rode out to the Meadowlands sports arena (held about a trillion fans I swear), and were seated a little too close to the stage (cause we were visible to those on it who kept staring at us), for close to four hours until our bums grew numb from sitting, and the bathrooms grew waist-high in hand towels and other muck, while The Who played every song I’d ever liked and then about fifty times that number in songs I discovered once again that I had never cared for. Ugghhhh. Not a pretty way to go out, even if what you’re really doing is paying off debts and old scores. And then of course, it wasn’t actually their last tour, and we got an invite to do it all over again a year or two later. Come to think of it, between those performances, I forgot how bad much of the show had been, and so I suffered it over again.