Soothing the Savage Beast

Posted by Marcy Paulson Oct 26, 2008

As a musician, I’ve had glorious days when every note I played brought a smile to someone’s face. And then there were days when I wondered why I ever took my instrument out of its case.

A memorable example from those less pleasant days took place during my college career. This college, being a liberal arts university with a biblical foundation, naturally made a host of service projects available.

That particular year, I was involved in weekly visits to a nursing home. Some time during the first or second month, our leader suggested that anyone in the group who played music should consider performing for the residents. We took stock and found that our talent consisted of myself on the flute and Diana on the clarinet. Not a promising beginning, and it only went downhill from there.

A day before the fateful nursing home visit, Diana brought a hymnbook to my dorm to go over her selections. She riffled through the pages and said, “Okay, this one’s in the key of E flat.”

I shook my head and told her, “That’s not going to work, let’s try another one.”

Diana didn’t rush to turn the page. Instead, she asked a little too condescendingly for my taste,

“Why?”

“Because I’m playing by ear, and for some reason, I don’t hear the key of E flat very well,” I answered. “Can’t we play something in the key of C, D, or G? I’ll even throw in F if that’ll help.”

After a lot of calculating on how to make Diana’s B flat clarinet work with my C flute, and a hymn book written in very odd key signatures, I lost the compromise and started feverish practice to add the keys of B flat and E flat to my repertoire.

The next day, Diana and I met the group, instruments in hand. Now this may’ve been all in my head, but the others seemed particularly cheerful that morning. And why shouldn’t they be? Our concert was sparing them that week’s awkward hour of fumbling for conversation with someone convinced they were their long-lost son or daughter. Their good spirits only stirred my repressed resentment for skipping math homework in favor of cramming scales in B and E flat.

Just so I don’t come across as completely cold-hearted, I should mention a few things about one of the residents of our particular nursing home. We were all warned about the ninety-pound woman on our first visit. “Completely senile,” the staff had informed us.

The woman they were talking about went only by “Granny”. To give you an idea of just how ancient Granny was, another resident of the home happened to be her daughter. Her daughter, though more lucid by a long shot, was definitely no spring chicken.

Granny spent every second muttering incoherently about—well, once I heard her rambling about the people she’d murdered and how she’d disposed of the bodies. Her gibberish was in a refined Georgian drawl. The dignified accent, bloody tales, and demeanor left me with the impression of a withered Scarlet O’Hara.

You can imagine, Granny wasn’t first choice for a conversation buddy during our visits. Granny wasn’t just confused, she was downright mean. A girl named Joy had to purposely steer clear of her for safety reasons. Joy was a dwarf, and for some reason, whenever she came within reach of Granny, she got pinched—and not an “oh, you’re so cute, pinch.” No, Granny clamped on to the poor girl with a ferocity that said, “Just try to get away you little pipsqueak.”

Granny was the savage beast everyone wanted to see soothed by our flute/clarinet duet. Usually an optimist by nature, I seemed to be the only one having trouble mustering any confidence in this plan.

That morning, the residents gathered in the living room of the large home that had been renovated to serve as a nursing home. Every sofa cushion and wingback chair was occupied. Diana opened the hymnal and we started in on Amazing Grace.

“We got through two bars before Granny added her commentary to the melody. “What is that tacky horn?” she demanded.

I winced, but kept going.

So did Granny. “If I played like that,” she continued, “I would take lessons in my home!”

Mercifully, we made it through three verses of that tune. The residents rewarded us with a heartfelt applause.

Naturally, I’d assumed given Granny’s response, one song was enough for the morning. But without even so much as a four count, Diana plowed right into the second hymn on our play list.

There was nothing left to do but join in and hunker down under another barrage of Granny’s heckling. Only that time, something was different. Granny sat stock still, and I braced myself for the onslaught. It never came. In a wavering voice, Granny actually began singing. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,” she sang. “Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.”

Personally, I didn’t know which had been more disconcerting, Granny’s barrage of insults about my tacky horn, or her complete change of disposition. We reached the end of the first verse, and Diana started in on a second. Of course, no one was watching us. All eyes were fixed on Granny’s surprise solo performance.

When Granny took a breath, an enthusiastic staffer at the nursing home said, “Oh, Granny that was lovely. You were singing about Jesus.”

The spell was broken. Granny swore vehemently as if to wash the taste of holiness from her mouth and then turned her attention back to our instruments. “If I played a horn like that,” she insisted to anyone within earshot, “I would never take it out of my home. Who is that playing that tacky horn? Would someone please tell her to take that tacky horn out of her mouth.”

Meanwhile, the other residents were becoming less and less tolerant of Granny’s rudeness. To put it mildly, the tension in the room was as tight as a piano string.

What amazed me most was Diana’s absolute nonchalance under pressure. I stopped playing several times at opportune moments, but she never took my cue. I dropped out and let her play a verse on her own, but she never noticed.

“Thank goodness she’s put down that tacky horn!” Granny shouted in mock relief.

An elderly woman to Granny’s right growled, “I’ve never seen anything so rude.”

For my part, I was perplexed about what to do next. Diana showed no signs of slowing down. I turned to the angry residents and offered a polite shrug as if to say, “Oh, no problem, just so long as she doesn’t start throwing tomatoes.” At the time, it seemed like the most diplomatic thing to do. In retrospect though, I see the wisdom of the musician’s time-honored adage, “No matter what, keep playing.”

The seething residents took my polite shrug as a sign I was throwing in the towel and their entertainment was being cut short. Suddenly, what had been repressed rumblings of unrest, broke into an angry riot. The woman to Granny’s right hauled off and slapped Granny’s lap. Granny’s daughter retaliated by flailing at the resident who’d attacked her mother. Fortunately, we were spared any further violence by the staff who rushed in to subdue the senior citizen revolt.

I packed up my flute awkwardly and made a hasty retreat to the van outside. As we drove back to the college, I asked Diana, “How on earth were you able to keep playing through all that?”

“All what?” Diana responded in genuine ignorance. I filled her in with a play by play of the geriatric brawl, but couldn’t help wondering whether the focus sheet music had afforded her had been a pro or a con in this performance.

Music is a powerful thing capable of stirring a wide range of emotions. If there’s any nugget of wisdom I take away from that day in the nursing home, it’s that musicians can’t please all the people all the time. So, enjoy the times when your music is greeted with applause, and for those other times, make sure you note the location of the back door.