DRAWING ROOM BALLADS

Evening Star, Issue 14001, 6 March 1909, Page 10

DRAWING ROOM BALLADS

[By Max Scukrek.] “One Briton is worth three of the French sort.” The British Empire is one on which the sun never sets; our nation is one which has produced some of the world’s greatest poets, scientists, and statesmen. In a word, we consider ourselves the most intellectual nation on earth. Given all this, why, oh why, is the average Briton, when bo comes home from tlie day’s business, or frim the chase of the small white ball which leads to bad temper and the use of naughty swear-words, so ‘very foolish in his choice of songs? I have often asked amateurs why they don’t sing better music, and have invariably received the answer: “ I understand nothing about music,” or “I don’t appreciate classical music.” I have never yet been able to find out what is meant exactly by the term “ classical music.” Apparently it means the music we do not care for, but in order to tell the difference between a good and a bad song no musical sense is necessary; one only requires common sense. The most important thing about a song is the poem. Now, if the words, to begin with, are rubbish, bow can the music, which is only there to give point to them, be of any value? Yet how many ballads are written to worthless words. From a music case I pick at random a song. It is called ‘ Rose Adair.’ The words are by one Malachy Ryan, and the music by Cuthbort Wynne. A gentleman who is supposed to possess a tenor voice tells an admiring audience that when he met the lady with whom he fell in love—

Twas in green leafy springtime, When birds on every tree W T ere breaking .all their little hearts In merry melody. How violently meriy the melody must have been to break the poor little birds’ hearts; and did they recover, or was the rest of the “green leafy springtime” passed without birds? The gentleman next addresses the blushing lady herself; 0 Rose Adair, 0 Rose Adair, Aon are the radiant sun. The blossomed trees, And the scented breeze, And the songbirds all in one.

What would a freak show not pay for such a wonderful being, composed of sun, trees, wind, and birds? There are four verses of this rubbish, yet this song sells verv well. Would any man in his senses recite such words? Yet I have heard this song sung often enough. s In this type of song it is a quite common thing to find the Deity assocfiited with the lady in the most blasphemous rrennor. Yet no one protests; indeed, I have heard clergymen applaud these very songs. Let us hope they did not catch the words In ‘Sing mo to sleep,’ words by Clifton Bingham, music by Edwin Greene, occurs this startling statement:— Nothing is faithful, nothing true In Heav’n or earth, but God and you. The composer of this gem has directed that it is to be sung “ dreamily and tenderly.” In the language of the small boy What rot!” Again, in ‘I give you love,’ after a most maudlin description of the kind of love I keep in stock— I give you love, then take it, dear, For good or ill, for joy or care; And doubly blcss’d it shall endure. For God and you will keep it pure. I don’t pretend to any great experience in these affairs, but I should imagine that if any man were to speak to a girl in the words used in these songs she would call for the police and have him locked up as a dangerous lunatic as soon as she had recovered from her surprise. As I have said above, in a song the music is intended to give additional weight to the words. Music can only paint the broad feelings, such as joy, sorrow, anger, etc. It cannot tell us the 'cause of the feeling, but it most certainly expresses it. Nobody is being buried, yet who on hearing, say, the Dead March from ‘ Saul ’ could mistake it for a rag-time cake-walk? One naturally feels solemn. In a good song the music reflects the feelings expressed by the words. Our every-day speech is a kind of song, for the voice rises and falls according to the words. A song should be only an exaggeration of this natural inflection. How often the music does not fit the words, however. In one well-known song which I have heard constantly in drawing rooms and oozing from windows as I passed houses in the street occurs the following: Wait for me as the shore waits for the sea, And I will come to thee. Here we have a plain statement of fact, yet the music written to these words rises a whole sixth! In other words, the words make a statement, and the music asks a question—that is, the music does not fit the words. Cases of the accents in the poem not coinciding with the accents in the music are so common as not to need quoting. There are so many good songs that anyone without the smallest pretension to musical knowledge can appreciate that it seems very sad that the meretricious type of song should still flourish. Perhaps the saddest part of it all is, as it is certainly the most unfortunate for the cause of music, that singers of established reputation should so often accept payment for singing a song in order to popularise it, regardless of its merit, or, rather, demerit.