Music and Silence

Djembes and Dun-duns

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

Aldous Huxley

Daphne Oxenford, Listen with Mother presenter

Some of my earliest memories are of music.  My mother was a singer and had a song for every occasion: The sun has got his hat on, Oh what a beautiful morning, I've got a little list. She sang in the local operatic society, so as soon as the new production was decided, we all learned the songs;  Three little maids from school, When a merry maiden marries, A wandering minstrel I. In the years before television, the wireless was almost always on - Listen with mother had Eileen Browne singing beautiful RP arrangements of traditional nursery rhymes like I had a little nut tree and Three Little Kittens (I still remember all the words); Children's Favourites on a Saturday morning had songs like The Laughing policeman, The Runaway Train and, best of all, Sparky's Magic Piano.  I loved the concept of just running my fingers over the keys and producing wonderful melodies.  My mother and my younger sister played the piano and I had lessons for a while but somehow didn't make the commitment to practise.  I have had several shots at learning as an adult, but I seem to have a lot of hang-ups about it.

Tommy Steele

I found a ukeleIe in the house with an instruction book from the 1930s, bought strings and taught myself to play a few chords. Aged nine, I would do my impersonation of Tommy Steele Singing' the Blues to anyone who would listen. Later I acquired a guitar and played well enough to entertain small children when I ran a playgroup, and had a brief flirtation with the harmonica, inflicting it on my husband on a holiday in rural France.  I greatly admire a friend my age who has taken up the violin in retirement;  she practises diligently, goes to lessons and plays in two traditional music groups. Having been told by my mother that I wasn't a singer, I took up choral singing in 1996 and really struggled at first with sight reading, especially as the first piece I tackled was Bach's B Minor Mass, as a second soprano.  My musical sister made me tapes of my part for practice and I got there in the end.  I now sing in our local choir and find that singing drives out other concerns and makes me feel good.

Still looking for the right instrument, I remembered I had bought a djembe from my African teacher, taking masterclasses at a drumming festival in Foix years ago. Unplayed and neglected, its goatskin had split. A Google search found a drumming group in a nearby town.  The teacher fitted a new skin to my drum and

I've been playing since January. I love it!  No music to read, the rhythm and sound of the drums is all-embracing and it's great to make music in a supportive group. I'm also loving singing to my toddler grandson, taking him along to a Bookbugs session at the library where we're learning new songs and rhymes.

Music and Silence

Djembes and Dun-duns

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

Aldous Huxley

Daphne Oxenford, Listen with Mother presenter

Some of my earliest memories are of music.  My mother was a singer and had a song for every occasion: The sun has got his hat on, Oh what a beautiful morning, I've got a little list. She sang in the local operatic society, so as soon as the new production was decided, we all learned the songs;  Three little maids from school, When a merry maiden marries, A wandering minstrel I. In the years before television, the wireless was almost always on - Listen with mother had Eileen Browne singing beautiful RP arrangements of traditional nursery rhymes like I had a little nut tree and Three Little Kittens (I still remember all the words); Children's Favourites on a Saturday morning had songs like The Laughing policeman, The Runaway Train and, best of all, Sparky's Magic Piano.  I loved the concept of just running my fingers over the keys and producing wonderful melodies.  My mother and my younger sister played the piano and I had lessons for a while but somehow didn't make the commitment to practise.  I have had several shots at learning as an adult, but I seem to have a lot of hang-ups about it.

Tommy Steele

I found a ukeleIe in the house with an instruction book from the 1930s, bought strings and taught myself to play a few chords. Aged nine, I would do my impersonation of Tommy Steele Singing' the Blues to anyone who would listen. Later I acquired a guitar and played well enough to entertain small children when I ran a playgroup, and had a brief flirtation with the harmonica, inflicting it on my husband on a holiday in rural France.  I greatly admire a friend my age who has taken up the violin in retirement;  she practises diligently, goes to lessons and plays in two traditional music groups. Having been told by my mother that I wasn't a singer, I took up choral singing in 1996 and really struggled at first with sight reading, especially as the first piece I tackled was Bach's B Minor Mass, as a second soprano.  My musical sister made me tapes of my part for practice and I got there in the end.  I now sing in our local choir and find that singing drives out other concerns and makes me feel good.

Still looking for the right instrument, I remembered I had bought a djembe from my African teacher, taking masterclasses at a drumming festival in Foix years ago. Unplayed and neglected, its goatskin had split. A Google search found a drumming group in a nearby town.  The teacher fitted a new skin to my drum and

I've been playing since January. I love it!  No music to read, the rhythm and sound of the drums is all-embracing and it's great to make music in a supportive group. I'm also loving singing to my toddler grandson, taking him along to a Bookbugs session at the library where we're learning new songs and rhymes.

A Country Wedding

Like a scene from Thomas Hardy, green hills and fields all around, sitting on straw bales, we wait for the bride to arrive.­­­ The guest sitting next to me reveals that he has seventeen umbrellas in the boot of his car. Most of us have wellies as alternative footwear, but the sun is shining and the sky is reliably blue.  The Beatles’ All you need is love plays and we turn to see a little group in fuchsia pink, violet and shimmery turquoise, flowers in their hair and in their hands, tripping through the newly mown grass – the bride, bridesmaids and three little flower girls, with the farmer (the bride’s father) in shorts, followed by an excited collie.



The ceremony is simple and moving. We all sing Annie’s Song, bringing tears to my eyes, and the bride’s six year old daughter reads her own poem, another emotional moment.

The groom wears a kilt and Doc Martens; his four year old son, a mini-version of his dad, proudly produces the rings from his sporran. The registrar explains that this marriage had to wait until the children came along and were old enough to take part.  It makes complete sense – the relationship tried and tested, a home established.  The wedding guests are mostly families with young children and babies, playing in the farmhouse garden outside the marquee.  It is a group celebration of love and friendship, informal and spontaneous.

The bride gives a dramatic Address to the Cake, the little girls sing and dance.  Later, the groom’s band play and we all dance till late.  We need rituals to mark important times in our lives and this one was perfectly staged to suit this family. (I couldn't help contrasting it with the BBC series Don’t Tell the Bride, where the groom plans what he thinks will be the bride’s dream day, often looking more like a nightmare!)  As we leave the lights behind to search for our car in the dense blackness of the country night, I feel a new optimism for the future and a belief (or at least a suspension of disbelief) in love and marriage.

   

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 [EK1]title

A Country Wedding

Like a scene from Thomas Hardy, green hills and fields all around, sitting on straw bales, we wait for the bride to arrive.­­­ The guest sitting next to me reveals that he has seventeen umbrellas in the boot of his car. Most of us have wellies as alternative footwear, but the sun is shining and the sky is reliably blue.  The Beatles’ All you need is love plays and we turn to see a little group in fuchsia pink, violet and shimmery turquoise, flowers in their hair and in their hands, tripping through the newly mown grass – the bride, bridesmaids and three little flower girls, with the farmer (the bride’s father) in shorts, followed by an excited collie.



The ceremony is simple and moving. We all sing Annie’s Song, bringing tears to my eyes, and the bride’s six year old daughter reads her own poem, another emotional moment.

The groom wears a kilt and Doc Martens; his four year old son, a mini-version of his dad, proudly produces the rings from his sporran. The registrar explains that this marriage had to wait until the children came along and were old enough to take part.  It makes complete sense – the relationship tried and tested, a home established.  The wedding guests are mostly families with young children and babies, playing in the farmhouse garden outside the marquee.  It is a group celebration of love and friendship, informal and spontaneous.

The bride gives a dramatic Address to the Cake, the little girls sing and dance.  Later, the groom’s band play and we all dance till late.  We need rituals to mark important times in our lives and this one was perfectly staged to suit this family. (I couldn't help contrasting it with the BBC series Don’t Tell the Bride, where the groom plans what he thinks will be the bride’s dream day, often looking more like a nightmare!)  As we leave the lights behind to search for our car in the dense blackness of the country night, I feel a new optimism for the future and a belief (or at least a suspension of disbelief) in love and marriage.

   

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 [EK1]title