Written by Gene Cashman III
ere it comes” she says, creeping like a ghoul in circles after an imagined prey. Crouching, twisting, shimmying her hips and legs, arms bent, fingers twitching like monster claws. The pace quickens, she circles now quit furiously. The intensity builds more and more. Finally, a crescendo - yet still she spins, staggering about now at a dizzying rate, nearly nicking the coffee table with her head. A collapse and perhaps, an odd version of the gator and mash potato-all rolled together- quickly ensue. Shaking and squirming wildly on the floor her giggles erupt to coughs and wild screams as the final Jaws-esque notes come crashing down. It, of course, is my daughter’s interpretive dance impression of Edvard Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. She’s barely two. If only every orchestral performance could be documented in such fashion. It should be mandated.
Anyhow, my affinity for classical music is born out of similar, happy, silliness. Well, more acutely it’s related to three things; my family, road trips to Bluffton, and a love of Second World War airplanes- particularly the B-17 Flying Fortress. Follow me here. You see, in the early 1980’s the means of travel for my family was cramming inside a Buick station wagon, locking the doors and driving hard for 12 hours and maybe one pit stop. Think Chevy Chase in National Lampoons Vacation meets Patton marching across Europe, only faster and smellier. If a land speed record wasn’t accomplished, you weren’t trying. Typically, the mode of operation was mom and dad up front, sisters in the middle and me and the dog in the way back-in the tailgunners position, if you will. Mind you, this was back in the days when society still thinned the herd by not mandating child car seats, parental seat belts or any general luggage restrictions within family vehicles. I less rode seated than was packed with the cooler of sandwiches, the last minute make-up bag and dog. I sucked in as the back door was slammed shut.
There Hunny, or even earlier, Chips dog and I would ride, cramped, often balled up with all the other assorted crap in the back of the wagon. Naturally, I felt a kinship with the B-17 tail gunners. I imagined myself as one, myself, as we weaved perilously in and out of traffic, cars coming dangerously close to slamming into my little world with each lane change. Speeding down I-16 in our monochromatic little Buick reminded me, as a kid, of soaring over Germany in a monochromatically menacing B-17. “Yahoo!” I would shout taking aim at Fords and Chevy’s imagining them to be a prowling pack of Luftwaffe raiders.
So, you might ask, how does this relate to an appreciation of classical music? Well, the soundtrack of those early years and in particular the unlawful racing to Bluffton from Memphis and vice versa was highlighted by what I call “redneck classic.” There was a little cassette that emerged in 1981 that put masterpieces by Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Bizet, et cetera to a drum beat. It’s the classical guilty pleasure on scale with ABBA’s greatest hits or Elvis’ 1968 comeback concert. In other words, it’s awesome. Its part neutron dance, part Canon in D Major and part Moulin Rouge. Needless to say, it’s non-traditional, but very entertaining especially for an imaginative six year old riding in the back of a wagon recklessly speeding, fueled by a classically driven drum beat.
Much of my early life is defined by this soundtrack simply because so much of my early life was on the road to Bluffton. The good, the bad and the ugly were put to music. For instance, take an example of the potentially ugly. I distinctly remember watching our then dog Chip’s crate-Chips inside- take flight from the rusty blue trailer desperately trying keep up with the speeding wagon pulling it down some stretch of I-20 to Atlanta. The plastic crate and dog lifted magically and then flew awkwardly into the grassy shoulder, all to Hooked on a Can Can. Fortunately, Chips survived the brief flight, but now that I think back on it, perhaps that is why all my road trip memories from then on always included a dog with me in that way-back seat.
Another time, I remember Dad driving hard for what we kids crudely, but affectionately called “the fart factories.” Now, for those mature adults in the crowd, I am referring to the distinct sulfuric smell one used to get upon arriving on the outskirts of Savannah from Macon. Well, the occupants of the car were less motivated by our time of arrival than by the pain in their collective bladders. Yet, Dad was on a mission, and proselytizing- no less- on the virtues of haulin’ when Tinkerbelle tickled his nose. You could see it coming, all to Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. He twitched, his eyes watering. His hands fumbled for the power window button, he turned and let loose a monstrous sneeze-and painted the window to a volley of disgust from the back seat. Undeterred by the potential embarrassment he motored on, girls shrieking, myself safely snuggled in the back, next to the dog and the speaker, observing through a filter of classical music.
Presently, my daughter has caught her breath and looks up at me with exhilarated eyes. In all my days I will never forget that look; she gives it anytime she is utterly safe and content. As a father, it means more to me than a billion dollars. “Again daddy, again” she demands. I smile and hit play once more for her delight. This time, as I watch her, I think about my family in a different light. I think about my filter of them then, and what I see of them now. I listen to the music and hear the grandness, the pageantry, the sadness, the wonder, the exhilaration and the joy wrapped up in classic pieces of music; I associate it with real life. I watch my own daughter clumsily and comically dance about to the musical inflections. My heart is again flooded with happy memories. Life is impossibly complex, probably unnecessarily, but we make it so. Yet, it gives me such childish wonderment to stumble upon an old, cheesy piece of drum beat driven classical music and be filled with such love of family-to be able to dredge through nearly forgotten memory-simply because my daughter is fascinated by the music. In college a wise man once told me to call my family once a week, no matter how I felt about them in the moment. I once asked him why. His response was “no matter how you feel now, you will never forgive yourself the things you can no longer say when they are gone.” Amen to that boss. I would give anything for one more cross country trip with the original six- mom, dad, three sisters and me...but in the meantime, I have the happy memory anytime my daughter is ready to dance-which is often.
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