The Murphy Method Blog

Well, welcome to the Murphy Method Blog! Since you’re obviously here, you probably know more about blogging than I do! I’m sure I’ll figure it out as I go along, but in the meantime, daughter Casey tells me I’d better get something up here, like, Right Now! What must I write about, I ask. Write about anything, she says. It would help if it had something to do with music to start with. Then later you can go off on your tangents about stove cleaning before picking parties or how I was raised down in Georgia or any number of feminist rants.

Okee-dokey, I say. I’ll tell ‘em about our recent gig at the Assisted Living facility. Not the whole thing, she says. Keep it short. Oh, I say.

So, there we are in the dining hall playing for a room full of staff and elderly residents. We are a four-piece band today, Red (husband, on mandolin), David Mc (friend, on guitar), me (Ms. Method, on fiddle), Dalton (friend, on banjo). We start the show with a couple of familiar songs and immediately have enthusiastic audience participation from one resident, a man sitting right in front of the band, a mere arm’s length away. As soon as he can figure out what the song is (he’s somewhat hard of hearing), he’s right in there with us. His voice is strong and surprisingly good. I wonder if he ever sang professionally.

The show rolls along fine until I hear him say eagerly, “Do you know ‘Home on the Range?’” We don’t have it worked up, I mention apologetically, trying to shrug him off. I can sing it, he says. I know the words. Just give me a D. I ignore him and consult with the band on what to do next. Then I hear it. A loud voice singing “Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam…” I groan inwardly. However, the show must not be train-wrecked, even at an Assisted Living Facility, so there’s only one thing to do. I jump in with “Where the deer and the antelope play…” Red and David thrash around on their instruments trying to find the key he’s singing in, and, lo and behold, it is D. We do our best to accompany him but he short-changes those long notes at the end of the lines. Red and David, however, are primo musicians and they catch up and cover up well. There is large applause at the finish.

But that is not all, no, that is not all. Next we launch into the instrumental, “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey.” I announce the tune in a Very Loud Voice, for our auditorily-challenged new friend. Since this is an old popular tune, I figure he might know the words and want to sing along. However, as soon as we start playing I hear the now-familiar voice saying, “Is that ‘Jimmy Crack Corn?’” No, no, no! my mind shouts while my face keeps smiling. But alas! Soon I hear the conflicting chorus of “Jimmy crack corn and I don’t care” coming robustly from the front row. I struggle to keep my song in my head while he’s singing his. Of course, it all turns out fine and he enjoyed himself immensely and so did everybody else. We found out later that he was a 1948 graduate of West Point. And thus we add one more story to our fascinating collection of Tales From Playing Music in the Shenandoah Valley. As Virginia Woolf wrote, “Nothing has really happened unless it has been recorded.” Or as a friend said, “The gig isn’t really over until it’s been talked about.” So, now it’s happened and the gig is over. C U next time. (Is this too long, Casey????)