I BELIEVE my obsession with music preserved my mental stability in the midst of abject poverty when I lived on D’urban Street, Wortmanville. I really liked all genres of music in my growing-up days, whether it was Hindi movie music; rocky steady, ska; reggae, soul, rhythm and blues, mainstream pop, and soft rock.
I simply devoured music growing up in Wortmanville. I came to like some artistes across genres very much like B.E. King, Engelbert Humperdinck, the Drifters, Nat ‘King’ Cole, Gary Puckett, Fausto Papetti, Burt Bacharach, Boris Gardiner, Ken Lazarus, Three Dog Night, among others. I didn’t go for the Beatles because, outside of three deeply philosophical songs they made (Eleanor Rigby, Nowhere Man and the Fool on the Hill), I found their other hits too mainstream. I didn’t fancy the Rolling Stones.
In my days growing up, there was a stiff competition between Mohamed Rafi and Kishore Kumar. Most people thought Rafi had a far greater reach than Kishore’s. That was undoubtedly true, but I preferred Kishore because the voice was more attractive and saccharine. My wife thinks Rafi was way, way ahead of Kishore.
My second-best song of all time, from which I will never change, was sung by Kishore, “Oh Mere dil ke chain.” I can never get over the reality of how a human mind can compose such a phenomenal song. My number one song that will always remain my favourite is Barry White’s instrumental phenomenon, “Love’s Theme.”
To fully grasp the inner beauty of “Love’s Theme” the circumstance has to be inviting. Either you are alone and you let the music seep into your mind, or you are driving for long hours on a lonely stretch and Love’s Theme is on the car stereo. I taught at the Berbice Campus for two years and on that long, lonely trip, I discovered what is unique in Barry White’s extraordinary song.
I played it on every trip I made to the Berbice Campus. The third circumstance is to dance to Love’s Theme with the woman you are absolutely, extraordinarily and deeply in love with. Bizarrely, I never danced to Love’s Theme with my wife. I am still hoping to do that, but somebody has to teach me to dance.
Music can be soothing and ethereal, but its memories can taunt and haunt you. Memories of music invoke the opportunities missed, the loved ones you missed and the moments when you first discovered yourself. Music has some painful memories for me, as I experienced last Thursday.
This week, two painful memories of music riveted my soul. The first was last Wednesday. I have a collection of CDs named “Smooth Jazz” in which various artistes put an upbeat jazz interpretation to some of pop music’s greatest hits. So, I put Smooth Jazz in the car stereo and didn’t know that one of the cuts was Grover Washington’s brilliant jazz composition, “Black Frost.”
I wished I didn’t hear Black Frost. I don’t want to hear Black Frost. It brings back memories of one of UG’s greatest professors, Englishman, Bill Carr, who was one of the world’s largest sympathisers of the post -colonial Caribbean. Each afternoon, during my student days at UG, Bill would go to the staff lounge, drink his problems away and each time I visited him there, Black Frost would be playing. Despite his brilliance as a literature professor, Rupert Roopnaraine, who was cremated this morning, has a greater grasp in the classroom. For the story of the mental torment of Bill Carr, see the book by his song, titled “In My Father’s House.”
Last Thursday, the lead singer of Three Dog Night, Chuck Negron, died. I would leave Wortmanville, where there was nothing for me and go to Dowding Street, Kitty, where I had a friend and listen to Three Dog Night whole day. Our favourite was “Just an old-fashioned Love Song.” Three Dog Night’s music was part of my life growing up in Wortmanville.
I left poverty in Wortmanville by seeking attachment in the PPP, where I worked at the Michael Forde Bookstore. Years after my return from studies abroad, I was jogging in the Botanical Garden, and I stumbled upon this gentleman who was sleeping on the grass with his wife and three children. It was my friend with whom I spent almost a year listening to Three Dog Night.
He told me he had nowhere to live, but I was helpless to help him. I never knew what became of him. But years later, I discovered a deeply moving, philosophical song by Three Dog Night titled “Going in Circles,” which was the theme from the Richard Burton/Elizabeth movie, “X, Y and Zee.” That song, like no other song, reminds us that maybe we think we know who we are, but we really don’t.
DISCLAIMER: The views and opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the Guyana National Newspapers Limited.
