Put Another Nickel In

In all likelihood you have no idea what the title of this essay refers to. And that's the point.

Just to get that out of the way, it's the first line of a 1950 song sung by Teresa Brewer. You're probably not familiar with her either. The nickel goes into a nickelodeon – a jukebox – though that, too, is probably only a dim memory if you've heard of it at all. And with all the available devices for creating your own audio environment there's no reason why you should have – though you may have seen one in a museum, if you go to one. (Do people go to museums nowadays?)

Okay. Now down to business. I like classical music. The “three B's” are a good starting point, but I like other music as well, including some from before Bach and after Brahms. But I have to admit that I can't stand twelve-tone or non-melodic “modern” music. Much of it I find to be just plain noise. I'm quick to stipulate that the music I like was once “modern,” and viewed by many with the same horror and disgust that I now heap on many of the current composers and those of the last century. That, however, doesn't change anything. I like what I like. (I suggest that you look up BFO: www.acronymfinder.com/Blinding-Flash-of-the-Obvious-(BFO).html)

As for “popular” music, what I like, the music of the early and middle twentieth century, isn't very popular anymore. Those of us who remember and like it have to go out of our way to find it. “The Great American Songbook” has, in our minds, been corrupted by rock and hip-hop. I don't want to paint with too broad a brush – the Beatles (and some other groups and individuals) will live forever, but they're exceptions. And though I can't understand hip-hop or rap or whatever it's called, I know one thing about it: it ain't music.

Actually, rap is what got me started on this essay. Someone on the radio was commenting on the fact that “Hamilton” was likely to be named the best musical of the year. In accordance with the philosophy of Ayn Rand I don't have to see it to know I don't like it. The whole idea of a rap musical depicting events in the life of one of our Founding Fathers is so outlandish as to make any thought of spending good money (and my valuable time) on it risible. Perhaps it's a good teaching tool for those who refuse to learn history any other way, but if they're children from deprived families they can't afford it, and if they're adults who can afford it but never learned about our history in school and are too lazy to learn now, they should be ashamed – no matter how much money they've accumulated. The fictionalized story, in a form of music that would be unrecognizable to the title character, may be popular, but I find it depressing to think that this is what the American Musical Theater has turned into.

I grew up on the “Broadway Musical” at a time when it represented an important source of popular music. The era from Kern to Loesser was a great period in American musical history although I know there were many losers that accompanied the winners, and I know that there have been occasional shows since that feature actual, singable, songs. But in recent years most of the Broadway musicals have been based on rock and rap, or have contained whiny ballads that have no melody and all sound the same. And all the singers whine the same. Well maybe not the same, but without any uniqueness. Their only characteristics are melisma and the imitation of gospel and rock. The only good show are the revivals of the ones that were classics.

What I understand intellectually, but reject emotionally, is that my children and my grandchildren will, for the most part, spurn my likes and dislikes. (Of course they like the Beatles – another B. They're timeless. What's not to like?) Every generation views its likes as definitive, and dismisses later creations as perversions of the real thing. I shudder to think that they identify with “music” that is, for me, only un-understandable noise. For them it's a model of what music should be, but they'll be repaid when they have to listen to the music of the next generation.

We love what was, not what is. We remember with affection what we heard when we were young. It doesn't matter if it was new then or simply represented what was drummed into us then. Nostalgia. (That's not to suggest that Bach is nostalgia – he wrote great music. On the other hand Berg and Bartok – two other B's whom I didn't hear as a child – wrote music that makes me cringe.) Anything subsequent to that doesn't live up to the “good old days.” (It's not just the music, of course. The days of the nickelodeon and the group were, somehow, more fun than today's isolation by earbuds.) While we can't monitor what our children hear outside, we can permeate the home environment with (what we consider) good music. That's one way to give the classics a chance – whatever genre they represent.

Today's music strikes me as cacophony aimed at making money and winning awards (which are now a dime a dozen). They don't write music like they used to.

Boy, am I crotchety.

Condemned

On my way to synagogue each morning I pass the house of a chiropractor who always seems to have an old Chevrolet in his driveway. It's invariably one that needs work and I suspect that it is a hobby of his to restore them. I remember cars like them from my childhood and, I assume, he does as well. That it was his childhood too. We all remember those days fondly and, since our senses and learning ability were greater then, the images from the past are our strongest.

Nostalgia. “Those were the days my friend. We thought they'd never end.” But they did. So we recapture them any way we can. However we adapt to the tools of the present and future, however we observe the norms of our times, we live in the past. We remember the music of our childhood, and the dances, and the events – both personal and national. Just as our children will do.  They will reject the trappings of our youth as we spurned those of our parents. (And, like us, they would be unable to tolerate the way of life of the distant past.)

That spurning made sense. We were smarter than our parents and more “with it.” We knew that the world was changing and that we had to change with it. George Santayana was only one of many who said it, but he is the one most remembered for the idea: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Those are strong words. Especially “condemned.” It is clearly a pejorative, having the same root as “damned,” and we accepted the wisdom of the adage and its denigration of the past without protest. A variant, that lack of knowledge of the past has doomed us to repeat it, is no better.

With age comes experience and knowledge. And, very often, conservatism. In many cultures age is considered to be accompanied by wisdom. The knowledge we acquired when we were young has been replaced by the wisdom that we gained as the years passed. So sometimes we recognize that the changes of our New Age may not benefit us or our children. Some of our childhood experiences and some of the world in which we lived then were preferable to what exists now. Yet we are taught that change is always for the better. Indeed, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” The implication is that no one in his right mind would want to repeat it.

Some of those past memories, though, aren't so bad. Nor are the realities they represented. Some of what has replaced them is of questionable value to many, and repulsive to some. We need parental controls on our television sets and on our computers to prevent our children from watching what we believe to be harmful to them, and to keep them from being attracted by individuals who might have a negative influence on them. We have movie and television rating systems that warn us of the threats in popular culture. We worry about our food and our environment, and we fear to let our children experience the world without proper safeguards.

But we can't stop the world and get off. What has happened over the years has come to be labeled “lifestyle creep.” However undesirable the changes that have occurred, they are now part of the scenery. They're background noise. We can't get rid of them. We can't go home again. And, according to Santayana and others, we are damned and doomed if we choose to do so.

The result is a naїve belief that things will get better – that the world of the future is certain to be superior to what we have already experienced. Perhaps that is the case, but accepting change for its own sake rather than learning from the past, is risky. Not all change is for the better. Sometimes it is better to relive a certain and well-defined past than to gamble on a future filled with unintended consequences.

To a degree, Santayana and those who shared his view were right. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned likely to repeat it.” But that's not always bad. There is no single solution or formula. What may have been the worst of times was also the best of times.

Next episode: “The Trouble With Israel” – And why the world hates her.

Change

 

We old fogies have a keen memory of the distant past, although we often lack the recollection of more recent events. In fact we long for “the good old days” because we don't remember how bad they were. And that's the way it was when we were young – though it was our elders who bemoaned our “excesses” – those of what was then “modern society.”

There are many possible examples of this situation, but for today I'll limit myself to communication. When I was young,ⁱ there were such things as telegrams and face-to-face conversations and shmoozing over a cup of coffee. There were some party-line telephones left as well. And letters. And we knew only as much about our correspondent as he chose to tell us individually. There was no Facebook, Twitter, and Google, and people actually talked to each other. In full sentences.ⁱⁱ It was expensive to make a telephone call,ⁱⁱⁱ and sometimes took a good deal of time.^iv But it was a treasured experience.

The most treasured of the experiences though – at least for me – was waiting for the delivery of the mail. It happened twice a day then,^v but the excitement never palled. We didn't receive very much mail, but what we got was usually important. We didn't get pounds of magazines, catalogs, political messages, solicitations, and unwanted advertising. Sure, we got bills,^vi but most of all we got letters.^vii

When was the last time you received meaningful mail? When was the last time someone wrote, by hand, words intended for you alone?^viii When was the last time you waited eagerly for the arrival of a personal letter? I suspect it's been a while.^ix

I marvel at the new, but sometimes I miss the old. With the internet and instant messaging I can communicate rapidly and with VoIP, and a program like Skype, I can hold a conversation with someone on the other side of the world. In fact I do. I speak with my daughter and her children frequently, even though we are thousands of miles apart. Technology is wonderful. Who ever dreamed that we'd be able to do this.^x

But technology only responds to our whims. And things are moving faster than we could have guessed. Too fast. In fact, everything is moving too fast. Instant gratification has become the goal in every aspect of our lives. Hence all the tools for instant messaging. Too many of us seem to think that others are interested in what they're thinking and doing in “real time.” And, sadly, it appears that a lot of people are. Hence texting, twittering, and all their relatives. And the rapidly changing statuses of people on Facebook^xi demonstrate that they are mercurial and have too much available time to tell everyone about it.

But I'm a hermit. I don't care if others don't know where I am or what I'm doing. In fact I prefer it that way. I'll let them in on it if I choose to do so – not simply to satisfy their curiosity. I've stopped answering my telephone when the “Caller ID” either doesn't tell me who's calling, or unmasks someone to whom I don't wish to speak. It must be galling to the caller, but I also throw out mail in which I'm not interested and I erase spam from my computer.

I admit it. I'm a throwback. In fact I'd admit more, but I'd rather look out the window and see if the mailman is coming.

Next episode: “Common Sense” – Do it yourself.

iYes. I know. You've heard that before and it bores you. I hope it won't turn you off entirely, though, and that you'll read this essay.

iiAnd with reasonably accurate grammar and orthography.

iiiIndeed, we developed codes and ringing patterns, as well as “person-to-person” long distance requests that allowed us to send messages without ever completing a call and incurring a charge.

ivEspecially with international calls, which often had to be scheduled in advance.

vPost Office costs have sky-rocketed since then, and deliveries have been scaled back as the cost of postage has increased. The government is spending billions of dollars for what used to be primarily a patronage system.

viMost of them now come by e-mail and are paid on line.

viiAnd a letter cost three cents to mail. In all likelihood a local letter would be delivered the next day, or the day after at the latest.

viiiAll right. I have to get this off my chest. When I write a letter I use a computer and word processor. My handwriting is bad and I sometimes can't read what I've written, so I can't expect the recipient to understand it. So it's really not hand-written. Some other advantages are that it saves paper (more words to the page), corrects my spelling, and leaves a copy for me. But the letter is for the individual and so crafted and personalized. And it is written typed by hand.

ixSome people discard mail nowadays without even opening it. It's a waste of time to do so. There's so little that is worth the effort.

xWe may be impressed. but the next generation will wonder how we were able to get by with such primitive technology and tools.

xiAnd their friends.

An Era Is Ending

 

An era is ending. That's neither good nor bad. It just is.

A few nights ago my wife and I attended a band concert on a local high school lawn. We took our own chairs as we do each time we go. They hold the concerts three or four times each summer. This particular one featured patriotic music, presumably in honor of Independence Day. In fact, one of the selections was an arrangement of the various armed forces themes, and veterans were asked to stand when “their” theme was played.

During the concert there was an appeal for money – mostly loose change – to support the group, since there was no charge for the concert. The band isn't very good, but that's not the point. Outdoor band concerts are an American form – a tradition – and one that seems to dominate the summer in rural, and sometimes urban, settings. One of our grandsons has a part in an amateur production of “The Music Man” and has learned how to play the trumpet (badly, by intention) as part of his role in the kids' band. The band is America.

A part of the appeal for money struck me, however. One of the reasons we were asked to support the band was that it was the last one in the county. Each year attendance at the performances has been decreasing, and it's only a matter of time before the musicians get too old, and the band folds. With movies, television, video games, and other attractions it's no wonder that people aren't much interested in band concerts anymore. Sitting at home is easier and more exciting. And with air-conditioning all but ubiquitous, the occasional cool breeze on a hot, humid night won't bring out the crowds. Nor will the insects. July 4^th will never be the same.

I'm sure there are counties with many more bands and many more concerts, but I suspect their attendance is diminishing as well. Although marching bands will continue for a while, especially at high school events, the era of the lawn band concert is rapidly ending. It has outlived its usefulness along with Decoration Day, Armistice Day, Washington's birthday, and, for Canadians, Dominion Day. They still exist but thet've been updated to keep up with the times.ⁱ I remember them with a great deal of affection, though my memories are often a little fuzzy.ⁱⁱ

Times are changing though. And patriotic parades are having fewer and fewer participantsⁱⁱⁱ as the military cemeteries fill up. Even living veterans are often embarrassed about their service. I was in the Air Force during the Viet Nam War,^iv but I didn't stand up when they played “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder.”^v

It's hard, though, to ignore the fact that eras have always been coming and going. It's nothing new. I don't mean things like the era of the space shuttle,^vi but those with greater significance. For example, the Pleistocene Era, the Biblical Era, the “Dark Ages,” The Era of Good Feelings, and, within my own memory, the era of Ebbets Field.^vii We get used to the absence of the familiar, and we move on in the expectation of better things to come. But that isn't always the case. In the words of Yogi Berra, “The future ain't what it used to be.”

Still, sooner or later, we get used to the new reality. However we don't always forget. An era is ending. We call it progress.

But sometimes I'm not sure.

Next episode: “Vitamin $” – You don't always get what you pay for.

i     In fact to a great degree those names won't even be recognized. When I wished a Canadian friend a happy Dominion Day, he looked at me with a funny expression on his face and, after a moment, informed me that “We don't call it that anymore.”

ii    A wise man, Will Rogers, once said of nostalgia, “Things ain't what they used to be and probably never was.”

iii    High school bands will continue to appear in these because they will always jump at the opportunity to perform and show off their (often imaginary) talents. And the publicity is good.

iv    Fortunately I was spared the risk of actually participating in the hostilities.

v       It was originally (1939) entitled “The Army Air Corps,” but in 1947 in it was changed to “U.S. Air Force.”

vi    The last (American) shuttle blasted off this morning.

vii    If you really care, the last game was played on September 24^th, 1957. The park had opened in 1913.