Music Is My Life: Ode to a Howling Dog

Music Is My Life: Ode to a Howling Dog
J. Glenn Eugster
Fontana Free Press
August 27, 2006

This morning at the 8:30 am mass at St. Mary’s Church in Alexandria, VA, at our folk-music mass, I sang softly with the small group of singers leading the congregation in songs to praise the Lord. We sang “Ave Maria’s”, “Glory to the Lord’s”, and-—my favorite, “Alleluia’s”. My voice was muffled so as not to embarrass my wife or the parishioners nearby. I’ve always liked music and enjoyed singing.

I wasn’t always a muffled singer with a dog-voice and there was a time when I sang proud, loud and without any sense of the sounds I could make.

One of my earliest recollections of singing is sitting in the back seat of my parents 1953 Chevrolet Bel-Air, four-door coupe, singing “Ave Maria” and other Catholic favorites. The inspiration for my tune of the day came from church and first grade at the Roslyn, NY Catholic elementary school my parents sent me to. The back seat was a private place where I could barely be seen by others, could sing to the back of my parent’s heads and to my hearts content. Their appreciation of my gift of song, or their tolerance of the noises I would make, was significant.

Our family, probably like most others, enjoyed music and songs and singing was common throughout the year. My father was Swiss and my mother was Polish. As Eastern Europeans they both enjoyed music from the homeland. Each Sunday morning my father would tune-in to a Riverhead radio station that played Polish-Polka music for five hours. My Dad’s interest in the Polka baffled me most Sundays since he couldn’t dance and had a good sense of music and the songs that played those mornings seemed repetitive and pretty average compared to Ave Maria and other Catholic favorites.

Given that I was a child and couldn’t commandeer the radio and switch the channels, I learned to live with and gradually enjoy the Sunday morning Polka-fest.

My parents enjoyed music and they had a collection of 45’s that they would play on a small turntable that was connected to our television. Their tastes were diverse and included Elvis, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Fats Domino, Nelson Riddle, Perry Como, and other singers of the 40’s and 50’s. When the opportunity for private listening presented itself I would play these records and sing along to the music. The music and the lyrics fascinated me and I soon knew every song by heart.

My father would later prove that he actually had good taste in music when he instructed me to purchase a copy of the record album “Sketches of Spain” by trumpeter Miles Davis. This introduction to Miles and jazz opened a musical door for me that have remained with me to this day.

Whenever we visited my mother’s family in Greenvale, New York I would get another dose of music. My mother’s two sister’s Stella and Sophia and their brother Joey lived with my Grandmother Josephine and each of them liked music and exposed me to new and different singers and songs.

Stella and Sophia would encourage my sister Claudette and I to sit on the couch with them each Saturday night and either watch Lawrence Welk and his orchestra and singers or sing-along with Mitch Miller of Perry Como. The music was light and cheery and my aunts were always full of fun and good cheer. The songs were simple and easy to sing-along to and it would always make for an evening of fun.

Good cheer was something my Uncle Joey was always full of. Joey had two moods—subdued and intoxicated. When Joey wasn’t drinking he was rather shy and had little to say. When he drank he talked more and invariably would sing at some point in the evening. His nickname as Yodel and he never did anything to indicate that he didn’t deserve the handle.

For example, Yodel would drink on every holiday. He would start with beer in the morning and gradually work his way to hard liquor or homemade Dandelion wine by the early evening. As he progressed to wine or hard liquor he would always sing. Although his voice was average his collection of songs, from around the globe, was amazing. He could sing old favorites such as “I’ll take You Home Cathleen”, and “Goodnight Irene”, as well as lesser-known songs such as “When the Horseshit Gets to Manila”, “She Was Peaches, She Was Honey”, as well as a number of German songs that to this today remain untranslatable.

It wasn’t unusual for me, even as a young child, to be singing some Mitch Miller’s or Yodel’s songs the day after a visit to Grandma’s.

Interestingly Uncle Joey took me to see my first Cowboy musical, a movie called “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers”. It was an unusual night out since the theater didn’t serve beer, I was very young, and Uncle Joey and I went without any adult supervision.

At this time I was familiar with westerns and was in the process of making a career change from wanting to be a Priest—my mother’s idea, to a Cowboy. The idea that you could have cowboys as well as singing really appealed to me. The movie was more of a musical than a western but it broadened my sense of my Uncle and music. It also filled my head with more songs to sing and the idea that you could wander around town singing to other people.

While my sister and I were in Catholic elementary school we were encouraged and subjected to various musical pursuits. We sang religious songs with our classes on a regular basis; participated in periodic plays; and were encouraged to join the band.

By the time I was in the 5th grade I knew that I loved music and wanted to pay and instrument—as well as sing. I thought a trombone or a saxophone would be challenging and fun. Unfortunately the school decided that I was best suited for the baritone, a rather large tuba-like instrument that was hard to carry on my school bus and even harder to play. The baritone might have worked for other singers but it was hard to sing with, I was hard-pressed to master it, and I soon lost interest in it.

My lack of success with an instrument reinforced the idea that I was best suited to sing.

Claudette also loved music and sang. As a third-grade student at a Catholic school in Cutchogue, NY she gave solo performance at the annual school music festival. In front of a standing-room-only crowd the church hall Claudette wowed the audience with a beautiful rendition of “How Are Things in Gloucamora?” She sang that Sunday afternoon with talent, poise and confidence that was uncanny for a third-grader and the crowd loved her. Having records of singers was exciting but actually having a singer living with us was unbelievable.

My sister’s performance made me think that maybe, just maybe, I was part of a talented singing family.

Despite my failure as a musician I continued to listen to music and sing when I could. I began to buy records with money I earned mowing lawns and shoveling snow and always had a radio or record player on whenever I could. I knew all of the popular songs and had an ever increasing knowledge of tunes from Polka Sunday, Cowboy musicals, certain jazz artists, and intoxicated family members. It was not unusual for me to go to sleep at night with a stack of records on my turntable and wake-up singing the latest top 40 hit.

When I got into Mattituck High School I continued my singing. Some of the singing was casual; some of it was structured and semi-serious. Casual music was spontaneous. Whether it was following an athletic event or during a night of beer drinking with my buddies a good song would always break out leading to endless others. We often sang in a car, on the team bus, or around a beer keg, and the songs made life seem like a musical.

During the summer vacations my friends and I would take spontaneous songs to new heights. For example, one evening after a night of drinking on Long Island’s South Shore with a fellow named Charlie Gackenhiemer we decided to a visit a local all-night dinner in Riverhead, NY for a late-night breakfast. Unfortunately we had squandered all of our money on drinks that evening and we didn’t have enough to pay for a meal. Always quick on his feet Charlie approached the manager of the dinner and offered to have us sing in return for breakfast. The manager declined our generous offer and suggested that we leave the dinner but not before Charlie and I broke into a few lines of a popular tune. We continued singing as we were ushered out of the dinner, into our car and out of the parking lot.

During the school year I had the opportunity to be in Mattituck High’s annual “Minstrel Show”. The show combined skilled and unskilled musicians, singers and performers in a range of serious and semi-serious songs and performances. Occasionally I was part of a performance-skit but I always found a way to be in the chorus and looked forward to the chance to sing in front of a local crowd with the 30-40 other singers. God only knows how the chorus sounded but it was a real high to sing loud and in public.

Shortly after my daughter Laura was born I began singing with her. When she was old enough to sing along we would pick songs that we both seemed to enjoy and sing while we were driving. Although she got a steady diet of children songs from her mother I was more inclined to teach her more contemporary tunes. She seemed to like all kinds of music but seemed to most enjoy musicals and story songs by such singers as Harry and Tom Chapin. Many of our car rides included family renditions of “30,000 Pounds of Bananas” and other Chapin hits.

My singing evolved gradually after high school and it wasn’t until my arrival in Philadelphia, PA. in 1974 that it began to take on a more regular public-expression. My wife, daughter and I moved to Philadelphia so that I could go to Graduate School at the University of Pennsylvania. It took less than 3 months for the pressure of school and urban life to wreak havoc on my marriage and send my wife and daughter packing to live elsewhere. The break-up sent me to some of the City’s many taverns, when I wasn’t studying or working, and introduced me to the Philadelphia music.

The end of my marriage lead me to frequent more and more bars and I soon sought out those that either had fabulous juke boxes or that featured local singers. For awhile I frequented Cavanaugh’s, an Irish bar which was run, if not owned, by Mickey Cavanaugh. Mickey ran the place and he would on occasion hang around the bar, pouring drinks and chatting with the customers.

One Saturday evening, following a hockey game, I invited my brother-in-law Eli, and my sister Claudette, who were visiting Philadelphia, to join me for a late night drink and songs at Cavanaugh’s. In addition to bar-chat Mickey began to sing Irish songs as he worked the bar. He had a rich, authentic accent and was a very good singer. All of us settled into the atmosphere and with the other patrons began to join in one of Mickey’s sing-along.

One year, after graduate school while I was working, my father moved into my South Philadelphia apartment for a week to ten days while he did some work for Boeing Aircraft. Although my apartment was small I welcomed my Dad for this visit and quickly planned evening activities which included fishing, a baseball game, and a few visits to some of the City’s local bars.

Given my father’s interest in music and the fact that during this period I was regularly listening to Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson on my eight-track tape recorder I decided that we should visit Philadelphia’s cowboy bar, “The Boot and Saddle” on Broad Street. The bar featured a great juke box with all kinds of broken hearted western and cowboy songs and on weekends featured country western music and square dancing.

Dad and I sat at bar of The Boot and Saddle, played music and enjoyed spending time with each other. The bar had an amazing neon-light out front, in the shape of a cowboy boot that was a beacon for all of the urban cowboys of this Northeastern gritty, industrial city. Each visit to The Boot and Saddle filled our heads with the intoxicating sounds of Waylon, Willie, Hank Williams, and other country western singers and most nights we were singing along with the songs before the night was over. Like friendly dogs the songs would follow us out into the car, along the streets of Philadelphia, and up into the second floor row house apartment that my Dad and I now shared.

My father liked the music, my apartment, his job, and probably The Boot and Saddle, so much that he was still living—and singing, with me six months later until I asked him to move on. I enjoyed his time with me, especially Sunday morning Polka specials on the radio and the visits to The Boot and Saddle but it seemed as if we had started living out these broken hearted western songs. Unexpectedly my life was starting to feel like a Larry Brown novel.

After my father departed my music focused on a portion of Philadelphia’s famous South Street which was a longtime source of local and regional rock and roll. One Sunday evening I wandered into a bar named JC Dobbs which featured music every night. This evening the singers were Tom & Jim, two local rock and roll stars named Kenn Kweeder and Chris Larkin. Although Kenn and Chris were serious musicians who were lead singers for serious bands on occasion they would sing at places like Dobbs on off-nights. On nights like this one, when Larkin and Kweeder sang together, they would be much more casual and regularly encourage the bar patrons to sing along. Reinforced with alcohol and a bar-environment I was a regular support singer for the musicians.

It was as if I had found my musical-singing Mecca at Dobbs that night. Not only was Dobbs close-by and a very comfortable bar, Kweeder and Larkin were talented and creative singers and musicians with a zaniness that was rebellious and completely refreshing. They were both from Philadelphia, had started a band when they were young called “The Secret Kids” and had a good size following. They featured a variety of songs that reflected their experiences in the City as well as songs by Bob Dylan. They were rebellious, had a unique ability to connect with their audience and I soon became a fan of theirs checking the local papers, and with them, to find out when and where they—and I, would be singing and playing next.

As much as I liked Kweeder and Larkin, I was, however, still a singer and the new source of music gave me a vast number of songs to sing myself. I quickly got some tapes of their performances, embraced the tunes, learned the lyrics, and took to singing their songs whenever the mood struck me-—and the mood struck quite often.

I would routinely sing along to Kweeder and Larkin songs whenever I was at home or driving. I would also sing their songs as I walked home late at night, alone or with someone, from Dobbs or other bars where they were playing.

The more I learned Kenn’s music I noticed that there was bit of yodeling—a sort of Eastern European influence in his songs that somehow seemed to connect Uncle Joey’s songs, Cowboy Western musicals, my father’s Sunday morning Polka special, with Philadelphia rock and roll. The ballads that Kweeder sang were about his life, lost loves, and adventures in Philadelphia. Many of the songs were stories that resonated with me and it was common for me, after an evening of drinking at a bar, to walk the streets of Philadelphia late at night singing these songs to myself and others I would encounter along the way home.

Confident with my street troubadour style I took my singing to other countries. Once while I was in Japan, as part of a Countryside Stewardship International Exchange Team, I sang “karaoke” one night after a meal in Shira Kawa Ko with a group of US and Japanese leaders. The leaders from Japan sang beautiful songs with skill and style that made my rendition of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” seem quite pathetic.

I left Philadelphia in 1989 for Alexandria, VA, married, and gave up my attachment to alcohol, bars and singing in the streets at night. After I eliminated alcohol I realized that as much as I enjoyed music and singing I couldn’t carry a tune and I had no God-given ability to sing. My voice was dog-like and it was possible that it had always had a canine quality to it. When I sing it causes strangers to complain, relatives to blush, and friends to move away.

My family, except for my wife and my sister’s husband Eli, seem to accept my dog-voice songs when I get carried away and try, once again, to carry a tune. It’s both reassuring and scary how accepting your family can be of the flaws of others. Then again they might have the same tune and tone-deaf limitations I do and are convinced that we are from a talented singing family.

My life still includes listening to music and an occasional Cowboy musical. I seek out music of all kinds and have developed quite a sophisticated ear for jazz, blues, country western, classical, folk, and of course rock’n’roll music. I purchase a great deal of music and we regularly go to concerts and some musicals at the Birchmere Music Hall, Wolf Trap, and the Kennedy Center.

I look for opportunities to sing when I am alone and out of ear-shot of strangers, family, friends and foes. As Harry Chapin sang in “Mr. Tanner” I’ve come to realize that “music is my life and not my livelihood”.

I do still sing at church each Sunday when I can join the singers and the congregation in some Catholic tunes that are suited to my lack of tone and range. I can’t help but think that some of my fellow parishioners might have had a musical history similar to mine and be dog-voiced as well. When those around you are of similar talent it is always easier to be yourself. Church got me started signing and it’s appropriate that I bring my songs back to where it all began.