RUDIMENTS, PT. 1,297
(the wreck of the edmund fitzgerald)
Music has its ways of cutting
into a soul and spirit, moving
in, as it were, to stay. Specific
habits of space and time get
locked. I can recall, whatever
it was, January, Winter, 1972,
I think, learning on my feet
all the new things that living
in Columbia Crossroads was
presenting to me. Day after
day, by myself. Bitter cold,
an endless, white wind, which
seemingly always carried snow,
and the traversing of strange,
dirt roads leading often to
places I didn't yet know. I
was alone, in a freezing-cold
house with but paltry heat. The
thermostat didn't function, the
heating unit was a joke, and all
the windows leaked air (though
fortunately not moisture). I
was inhabiting a 12 room, old,
monstrosity - to be tackled and
beat down, before it killed. My
wife and infant child had not
yet arrived, and it would be
weeks before they did. The
house was spooky and dark,
chilled and windy too. I sensed
there'd be a real need for some
heavy work soon - the kitchen
floor had a hole, and the stove
needed replacing. No gas, all
electric; some sort of modern
idea. Each morning I had to
set out, in an equally shabby
and cold VW, to Elmira, NY,
just over the border, perhaps
20 miles away. (I seemed to
have a thing about straddling
borders, then, and now). That
daily drive was nothing really,
just a straight scat up a paved
'Route 14,' as it was named.
When, weeks later, my father-
in-law finally arrived, with his
daughter (my wife) and our
6-month old kid, I could read
the venom in his eyes as he
left them behind, to be taken
in by such a heap of trouble
as me, and that house.
-
Yet, my only companion on
that daily work-ride being
morning radio, I latched onto
certain songs that seemed to
shudder my soul and catch me
looking; encapsulating my mind.
At that particular time of life (I was
early 20's), I was still open to new
impressions. (Well, I suppose.
The more granular notion of
things which I now inhabit,
perhaps no longer reflects that).
-
A little later, maybe three years on,
one song I can still recall, seemed to
have come out of the blue, turning
over tin cups and rattling pots and
pans. It was called 'The Wreck Of
the Edmund Fitzgerald,' and was
sung (and written) by Gordon
Lightfoot. He had been a sort of
folkie, from the Toronto, Canada,
area of cafes and folk-singer haunts.
Maybe NYC too; I knew I'd heard
of him and seen his albums. In
any case, this song, in and of
itself, bored into me - a strange
and distant iron-sound, as if the
voice I was listening to was at
rest, stationery after death, trying
to relate a tale. It retold the story
of a Great Lakes shipwreck, and
I was engrossed, had never heard
turns like that - the song seemed
driven and determined to go on,
without ending. It caught me
unawares, at first, and I couldn't
hear it enough. It told of another
place. (This one radio station
seemed to just keep playing it,
often and steady. Perhaps an
early pressing, or demo).
-
Other songs had maybe possessed
that quality, but never to the full
extent of this one, nor with the
same intensity. This song had fire
and froth, and fateful distilling of
a particular episode in hazy time -
as if that voice was calling back
from somewhere else. I didn't know
much, at that point, about the Great
Lakes, mis-reading of course the
word 'Lakes' - which word does
not get across the strength and
drive of those huge bodies of
inland water which act, and are
treated more as oceans than lakes.
Commerce. Scuttle, Traffic. Oil,
Grime. It's a shame sometimes
how words actually mis-represent
the realities around us, as if there
weren't yet enough words to cover
all the peculiarities of our world.
-
This song caught it all - a glimpse
of a water-world working, the tragic
dimensions of loss and disaster, the
small comments of shoreline watchers,
waiting for something that never arrives.
If Gordon Lightfoot wrote that song,
I wished to know what he meant and
how he did it. It seemed perfect, like
the snow and hail I was driving
through.
-
Plenty of songs that try the same thing
just end up being stupid : I can recall
'It Never Rains In Southern California,'
as a for-instance. Froth. 'All The Young
Dudes,' an attempt at very little, yet
captivating because of its pace and
tempo and voice. But this song was a
home run, breaking all the lights and
knocking down the bleacher walls.
It just had to be heard. If there was an
outer limit of a song's reach, past which
only a few ever went, this one was
long in the lead. Like fire. Like ice.
No comments:
Post a Comment