My Favorite Song

"My favorite song is one I'm singing"

I got to thinking about singing when one of my Facebook friends posted a lament of the loss of folk music and "group sing". He was referring to silly, jubilant or patriotic songs that people might sing in public places, but he also included churches in the decline of group sing. The seventh inning stretch song is just one barely surviving example of group sing music (both sacred and profane) that survives, but Americans are put to shame by international "football" fans in the sports singing arena. Churches still sing, but most of them are abandoning the old feeling of gathering around the piano (as used to happen in homes, as well) in exchange for (often beautifully orchestrated) ensemble music that leaves the congregation in more of a receiving posture than a giving posture when it comes to music, unless they happen to be gifted enough to be on the stage.

No offense, Mom and Dad, but I remember how sad I was to discover that the hymnals of my childhood had given way to powerpoint slides with lyrics for Christmas Carols and rather inventive chord progressions at the last service I attended at the church where I grew up. I couldn't even sing in the parts I had sung almost since infancy because the songs had been reworked so that the old harmonies didn't fit with the new polish. If there is one thing that was amazing about growing up singing hymns from a 4-part book that goes beyond the great old hymns themselves, it has to be that singing in church gave me my most lasting musical education and instilled in me the love of singing and comfort with song that has taken me so many different directions in my adult life. Church singing gave me something many of my non-churched peers didn't get anywhere: a voice.

I can't point the finger backwards without taking issue with what I also see in some Orthodox circles. Music plays an enormous role in Orthodox worship, but the degree to which the congregation is encouraged to sing in Orthodox parishes is as varied as the parishes scattered across the United States. One of my sadnesses at our current parish is that they have gorgeous service books with the music for the services available to everyone in the building, and I didn't know this (since nobody was using them) until I joined the choir and talked to the director, who had spent years putting the book together, not so it could gather dust in the pew racks, but so that a singing community could be established. I can still sing. I traipse up to the choir loft and participate there, but I miss the sort of parish where everyone sings the services, and I find when I am not in the loft, mine may be the lone voice quietly singing along downstairs so as not to stand out.

I appreciate the well-polished sound as much (if not more, perhaps) as just about anyone. I glory in the chance to actually participate in making music that orderly, beautiful and disciplined, but I'm not sure that performance has any place in church. In fact, I don't think it belongs. What does belong is the prayerful, joyful noise of a community of praise. I don't mean that church choirs shouldn't practice, because awful singing from the song leaders is distracting at best, but I do mean that singing ought to be for everyone present, and, ideally, instrumental support should be just that, when present - support of the voice lifted in song. Perhaps it is no mystery, then, that I would be beguiled by the idea of Sacred Harp.

Sacred Harp is a tradition of singing that has been around since the 18th century and still lives in many communities - especially in the rural South. I titled an earlier post this week "Awake, My Soul" (which my mind fills in with the words "and Sing!"), not having any idea that the phrase was the name of a documentary film made exploring the living history of shape-note singing which came into full bloom in this part of the country. This community sing art form is so raw and vibrant -- and forgiving of voices, musical skill and personalities.

Daniel and I have both read a bit about this exuberant and primitive music, and we discovered today that there is an active group meeting once a month about 40 minutes from us, and another meeting twice a month about an hour away. I'd love to go sometime. In the meantime, I'd like to share the trailer for the documentary in hopes that this strange and wonderful music might touch another heart or two.

The quote at the beginning of the post? well, that's my favorite quote from the trailer... probably because it's exactly how I feel about 98% of the time. I wish everyone could know that joy. At the very least, I hope my child will know it.

Another Reason to Love the South

Okay, so how cool is it that there is actually an event called "The Hell Hole Swamp Festival"? Very cool. I won't listen to protests to the contrary.

It's not exactly in our backyard here, but it's not so terribly far away in the Palmetto State Low Country. I haven't looked myself, but Daniel tells me that if you locate it on the map, it's "precisely in the middle of nowhere" at the junction of a minor US route and a state highway, and a stone's throw from a town called Old Joe. The swamp/festival apparently derive their not-so-flattering names from a letter from Cornwallis to King George in which he described the locale as "one hell of a hole of a swamp." Those dang nicknames, they have a way of sticking... for centuries.

But the name is far from the only reason why the festival is the epitome of coolness. You must consider the other "family" activities:
+ the 36th annual "Gator Trot" 10K
+ a Bar-B-Que cookoff
+ a talent show
+ a tobacco spitting contest
+ a display of whiskey stills
+ a horseshoe pitching contest
+ a parade
+ arm wrestling
+ Miss, Mrs. and Mr. Hell Hole beauty pageants
+ and... the ever-popular Moonshine Ball
Those are just the highlights. It's not until the first weekend of May, so there is still time to make travel plans...

Part of the beauty of such an event is the fruitful conversation it prompts between my loving stickler of a husband and me. Of course, while I am as fallible as the next person, since I am employed as an editor, I cannot be permitted to make spelling and grammar errors without gentle, well-meaning and good-natured ribbing from him.

Today, I dared to misspell whiskey in a message to him on the subject of the august event. I, without properly referring to Scotch Whisky, spelled it "whisky." I can honestly claim, at least, that I spend so little time actually imbibing the stuff that I could care less how it is spelled in what context. But I digress... Daniel kindly pointed out my mistake, at which point I made some trifling excuse about needing to save up my spelling prowess for my day job. Daniel then cleverly suggested that the whole spelling debacle can be avoided altogether by simply referring to it as "uisquebagh". I knew, knowing Daniel, that this had to be some synonym for whisk(e)y. But since the word was new to me, I did my usual editor thing and looked it up. Oh, snap! The reply was so lovely: you mean "uisquebaugh"? Bothersome vowels! He promptly accused me of being picky.

Balance was thus restored in our corner of the universe.

You see, the most beautiful thing about "The Hell Hole Swamp Festival" is that the mere idea of it expanded my knowledge of language and alcohol culture and brought us closer together as a family. Who can ask for anything more...? ...except perhaps the title of Mrs. Hell Hole.

(It's all yours, Heather... I won't be entering)