Life In The Middle

When Music And Dance Meant Something

My Father was a great guitarist. He had a group of fellow musicians who would get together almost every weekend and have a jam session. There was Pete, who played the accordion; Big Jim, who played not only the bass, but also the trumpet; Johnny who could slam out the meanest honkytonk tunes on the piano; and Skeeter, who’s bluesy voice could get your foot tapping and your less than perfect vocal cords singing along.

When we moved from the Midwest to the West Coast, we bought a little house in an almost unknown town named Glenwood, between Springfield and Eugene, Oregon. There was a detached garage, typical of homes built during the forties. My Dad, seeing the garage, knew instantly that here he would build his Music Room.

And build it he did. One thing he put in was a fantastic hard wood floor and tons of electrical outlets for instruments. It wasn’t much to see from the outside, but oh the glorious sounds that drifted out into the night air, and up to the second floor, where we three girls shared a room.

We knew all the old tunes from the forties and fifties. My favorites were the Mills Brothers, and Louis Armstrong, Judy Holiday, Dean Martin, as well as Glenn Miller, Joe Stafford, and Bing Crosby. It may sound strange, but many of those old tunes I remember better than the singers of the sixties, which were my teen years. In all honesty I’d have to say the Beatles didn’t appeal to me nearly as much as Doris Day singing “Going to Take a Sentimental Journey”, or Bing Crosby crooning about “A White Christmas”.

During the Summer we would bring our blankets onto the roof of the Music Room, and drift off to sleep with the neighbors coming in and out the door, singing, laughing, and socializing. I can’t think of many other nights spent under the stars, than those long forgotten times.

Because I played the accordion, and played it well by the time I was thirteen, I was down there in the Music Room participating in a jam session with the other musicians. I learned to dance on that dance floor. I went from dancing on my Father’s feet, to swinging, and waltzing. I watched my parents as they danced together, and I listened quietly as they cut records with my Mother singing, and the boys playing in the background.

I think about what I experienced as a child, and though we were pretty poor, music was something my Father taught me to appreciate. He would smile, and say, “Music doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, it’s there for you to enjoy.” How true that is.

In some ways it saddens me to see that music and musicians have degraded the lyrics, and the rhythm has become so sexually explicit that it has to be closely monitored by parents. The Waltz and the Foxtrot, and Swing have long since been replaced by “Doggy Dancing” and Hip Hop accompanied with crotch grabbing. I can’t imagine a Father teaching his daughter the steps and lyrics to many of the “Hit” songs calling women Bitches, and Hoe’s.

Time certainly has done some drastic changing, and to my way of thinking ,not all of it good. I read an article in a magazine that said there seems to be a movement by some folks back to learning how to dance some of those old dances, like the Tango, Fox Trot, and Waltz. It seems that some people think there may be some value in those fading skills. Interesting isn’t it. I hope that the trend continues, and more musicians will turn towards creating a song that you can actually sing the lyrics to, without being embarrassed. Until later, and happy singing and dancing folks... Colleen

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Copyright  2008     Leland Pulley