My Music

It is strange that I would give part of the title to this posting the pronoun ‘my,’ but I do it to illustrate that we all are being bombarded by invitations to come in to the place or the cyber-site of MY Toyota, or MY Bank of America, or MY Save-a Smile dentist, or MY space or whatever.  It is strange because people who profusely use the pronouns ‘my’ and ‘I’ in their conversations invariably put ‘me’ off.  The person who enters a room with “I’m here!” as contrasted with the person who says, in effect, “You’re here!” tells me more than I want to know about them.  

In any case, back to the point of music. . . .  I read (or heard) not long ago the observation made by an Islamist-watcher—or Muslim I had been talking with—I don’t remember which—who said that devout Muslims do not or are not allowed to listen to music.  I have been assiduously ploughing through the Qur’an (Koran) in the past few weeks to confirm this and other doctrines attributed to the Islamic religion, but have not yet found the music doctrine. (My English language copy of the Qur’an does not have an index.)  If this imputation is true, I find it to be astonishing.  Music, at least the genres I listen to, can be superbly pacific and inspiring and uplifting.  A life without music is to experience a great deprivation. If true, it may explain some things about the Islamic faith. 

I further explore this topic (rather shallowly, I admit) by relating to you a very interesting—and seemingly unrelated-- interview I heard on NPR last week (Feb. 3, 2015) about a songwriter named Rose Marie McCoy, who died last month at age 92.  Audie Cornish, the host of NPR’s All Things Considered, interviewed producer Joe Richman of Radio Diaries about Rose Marie McCoy on this program six years ago, and he brought us this remembrance.  Rose Marie was a black woman who wrote over 850 songs, many of which were popular in the 1950’s and ‘60’s.  Some were sung by well-known artists such as Elvis Presley, The Platters, The Four Tops, Ertha Kitt, Bette Midler, and numerous other less-well known singers.  Some were never sung at all.

A quotation from Rose Marie McCoy makes the point that I want to emphasize today.  She said, referring to the boxes and boxes of tapes of songs she had written—many apparently never produced and distributed—and kept in the living room of her little house, “I keep all of my tapes - country songs, gospel songs, pop songs, every kind of song. I'm just going to wait till love come back in style. That's a good title.”

“I’m just going to wait ‘Till love come[s] back in style.’”  Her songs, some of which I heard, dealt with love—finding it, losing it, needing it, valuing it.  That is indeed a good title.

This lyric haunts me every Christmas, (not written by Ms. McCoy): “For hate is strong, and mocks the song, of Peace on Earth, Good Will to men.”

The antidote?  “What the World Needs Now is Love, Sweet Love.” Music can set the tone of so many interactions.