My hands trembled on the keys of the grand piano at Ascension. I had just seen my father-in-law, Paul Straub, a few weeks ago in Florida. And here I was in 2020 playing my original piece in A minor, A Moment in Mourning, at his funeral Mass. Near the piano were assembled Maureen, Paul’s daughter, and colleagues in the choir. Next to it sat our esteemed Choir and Music Director, and accomplished keyboardist, David Anderson.
I played my slow, simple piece without a mistake, but my shaky hands reverberated nervously with the moment. I had generally played the instrument for family only, privately. But here in this event, family and a broader community came together to honor Paul and pay respects to Maureen, friends and relatives. My private work had become a more public musical expression, however briefly.
There are times when it’s right to put some part of yourself “out there” when you normally keep it to yourself. I’m an introvert, used to doing a lot privately, like journaling, writing poetry, praying and playing the piano. I’m an OK musician; I can make the instrument sound nice. And I’ve composed a few pieces, including this one and another in the key of A minor.
I see mourning and A minor as natural companions: the key is known for evoking melancholy, sadness and a sense of brooding. Played slowly with interspersed moments of silence helped me remember that this time I was playing for Paul, now gone, and Maureen.
Maureen, a vocalist, has more musical training than me. She’s got the degree. When discussing the key of A minor with her as I was writing this essay, she recalled that one of the pieces she has performed which she cherishes in her memory is Les Berceaux by Gabriel Fauré.
At the funeral, it had been a while since I had performed in front of a group on the piano. I had accompanied Maureen during her recital. I played with her in a church in Mexico for our niece’s wedding. But it was over fifty years ago, about a mile south of Ascension in our home basement in Berwyn where I first had the lead in an A minor piece. As our 8th-grade rock band’s keyboardist, I played and sang The Animal’s hit, House of the Rising Sun. Jim Quealy, our leader, had asked me to sing this one because of my deeper voice.
We called ourselves the Velours. Yes, we wore velour shirts. I remember buying mine – dark green – via the Montgomery Ward catalogue.
The basement was full of kids from our grade at St. Mary of Celle. “The House” was one of our slow numbers. A few guys and girls danced close.
The song is bleak; It’s about a life gone wrong in New Orleans, filled with regret: “Oh mother tell your children, not to do what I have done.” But I think the mood we set on our bungalow’s concrete dance floor was more of a satisfying kind of defiance that we – the Velours and classmates – could pull of this little night club scene just once and make it work. So maybe the A minor tone in this case stirred up more gratification than regret.
These days, I sing as a bass in the Ascension choir. One of my favorite numbers is Offertory, by John Ness Beck, based on Micah 6:6-8. The message here is one of self-examination and humility. It explores, what does one need to do to impress the Lord? Rather than offering the Holy One grand gestures, the prophet says to act justly, love mercy and walk humbly with your God.
So, different encounters with this quietly powerful key over the years have led me to respect its brooding way of stirring different emotions, depend on the setting, lyrics and imagery.
Playing for my father-in law’s funeral gave my piece a context mixing sadness over his being gone with admiration for his legacy and accomplishments. Years before on the other side of Roosevelt, I did my best 13-year-old “Eric Burdon” with a song written about regret but experienced differently by us about 12 feet below our family’s living room floor; it was a quiet, warm assertion of the fact that we were gradually growing up.
And these days in the choir, a work like Beck’s takes the inner melancholy that comes in A minor and steers us toward acknowledging that what a God who has done so much for us wants from us is simple goodness.
Over the decades, I’ve gone full circle with this mysterious musical key that has suited my introversion differently, on opposite sides of 12th Street.