Some Real American Music- Miles 1904
[From Harper's Magazine, Vol. 109, No. DCXLIX, June, Copyright 1904." This article gives early documentation to some folk songs from the Tennessee region- like Cripple Creek. Music is upcoming. Not carefully proofed.
R. Matteson 2015]
Brief bio from wiki: Emma Bell Miles (1879–1919) was a writer, poet, and artist whose works capture the essence of the natural world and the culture of Southern Appalachia.
Miles was born in Evansville, Indiana in 1879 and moved to the area that is now Red Bank, Tennessee when she was a young child. Later, she and her family moved to Walden's Ridge (now Signal Mountain), Tennessee. A talented young woman, she left home to study art in St. Louis, Missouri. However, she really missed the mountains and soon returned to Tennessee. After moving back to Walden's Ridge, she fell in love with a young man named Frank Miles and married him. (Shannon Brooks 161)
SOME REAL AMERICAN MUSIC
by
Emma Bell Miles
It is generally believed that America has no folk-music, nothing distinctively native out of which a national school of advanced composition may arise. The commercial spirit of the age, and our conventional mode of existence, have so far effaced original types of character and romantic phases of life that the folk-song seems already a thing of the past.
Dvorak and a few other composers have indeed made use of negro themes, and the aboriginal Indian music has been seriously treated more than once. But these compositions, however excellent, are no expression of American life and character; they fall as strangely on our ears as any foreign product.
But there is hidden among the mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Carolinas a people of whose inner nature and its musical expression almost nothing has been said. The music of the Southern mountaineer is not only peculiar, but, like himself, peculiarly American.
Nearly all mountaineers are singers. Their untrained voices are of good timbre, the women's being sweet and high and tremulous, and their sense of pitch and tone and harmony remarkably true. The fiddler or the banjo-player is well treated and beloved among them, like the minstrel of feudal days.
The mountain fiddler rarely cuddles his instrument under his chin; he sets it against the middle of his chest, and grasping his bow near the middle, wields it with a juggling movement quite unlike the long sweep of the accomplished violinist's bow-arm. It is sometimes complained that their playing is too rapid and jerky; but the times are composed for this tempo, and no other would be found suitable.
Prominent among the elements of this music is that leading American characteristic, humor; not the sparkling wit of the French, nor the broad, clumsy jollification of the Teuton; not sarcasm nor irony, but the keen, wholesome, freakish American love of a laugh pervades directly or indirectly almost every line. The music, too, while usually minor, is not of a plaintive tendency; there are few laments, no sobbing and wailing. In this it differs radically from that of savage peoples. Neither has it any marital throb or clang. It is reflective, meditative, with a vein of genial and sunny philosophy; the tunes chuckle, not merrily, but in any amused contemplation.
The mountaineer is fond of turning the joke on himself. He makes fun of his own poverty, his own shiftlessness, his ignorance, his hard luck, and his crimes:
I'll tune up my fiddle and rosin my bow
And make myself welcome wherever I go.
Ill eat when I'm hungry and drink when I'm dry;
If a tree don't fall on me, I'll live till I die.
I went upon a mountain and give my horn a blow;
Ev'ry gal in the valley come running to the do'.
As I went to my old field, I heard a mighty maul in'; "
The seed-ticks was a-splittin' rails; the chiggers was a-haulin.' [Rhy Whiskey]
Once touched by religious emotions, however, the mountaineer seems to lose his sense of the ridiculous entirely— the deeps of his nature are reached at last. The metaphors of Scripture, the natural expression of the Oriental mind, are taken with a literalness and seriousness against which one cannot help thinking a touch of humor might be a saving grace.
Hit's the old Ship of Zion, as she comes,
Hit's the old Ship of Zion, as she comes,
Hit's the old Ship of Zion, the old Ship of Zion,
Hit's the old Ship of Zion, as she comes.
She'll be loaded with bright angels when she comes, etc.
Oh, brothers, what will you do when she comes? etc.
We will flee to the rocks and the mountains, etc.
Repetition carried to a point of wearisomeness is a favorite form of revival hymns:
Some have fathers up in glory,
Some have fathers up in glory,
Some have fathers up in glory,
On the other shore.
Some bright day we'll go and see them,
Some bright day we'll go and see them,
Some bright day we'll go and see them,
On the other bright shore.
Oh, just let me in the kingdom,
Oh, just let me in the kingdom,
Oh, just let me in the kingdom,
When this world's at an end.
Here a feeling for the supernatural is uppermost. The oddly changing keys, the endings that leave the ear in expectation of something to follow, the quavers and falsettos, become in recurrence a haunting hint of the spirit world; neither beneficent nor maleficent, neither devil nor angel, but something—something not to be understood, yet to be certainly apprehended. It is to the singer as if he stood within a sorcerer's circle, crowded upon by an invisible throng.
Rain, Mighty Lord
Rain, oh, rain, mighty Saviour,
Rain converting power down,
Rain, mighty Lord.
The way the holy prophets went,
Rain, mighty Saviour,
The road that leads from banishment,
Rain, mighty Lord.
Shout, shout, we're gaining ground,
O halle-hallelujah;
The power of God is a-comin' down—
O glory hallelu,
I do believe beyond a doubt,
O halle-hallelujah;
The Christian has a right to shout—
O glory hallelu,
It is their one emotional outlet. Having no theatre, no bull-fight, no arena, no sensational feature of any kind in their lives, they must, being a high-strung race, find vent some other way.
They rock to and fro softly, crooning and moaning, until the impulse comes upon them to leap into the air and scream and shout until exhausted. It is common for women, and even men, to injure themselves unawares; or, at bap-tizings, to pitch headlong into the water. I have seen convulsions and even temporary insanity brought on by these excesses. It is the music that produces this feeling; but these songs cannot be fairly judged sung out of their natural setting of brushwood camp or half-lighted log church, and reenforced by the vibrant, frenzied voices of exhorters and the high strained singsong of the preacher who has reached what is known as his "weavin' way." I confess that the wild fascination of a mountain revival has a strange power over me; the scene and the music draw me with a charm that I do not understand.
Such a religion has naturally little to do with moral law. I am far from wishing to imply that they regard no principles of right and wrong, or that their own code of morals is not rigidly adhered to by the majority. The popular idea in this connection is, I am well aware, one of lawlessness. But the world at large knows little of the mountain people except as some bloody feud or fight over a raided still finds its way into court. This is as if one judged society by the divorce columns and reports of frauds and embezzlement. It should be remembered that the greater number of the mountaineers never get into the newspapers. Who is there to speak of their hospitality, their independence, their fidelity to marriage bonds? They are really of superior moral fibre for so primitive a race.
But, like most primitive peoples, they are prone to hold brute courage the first of the virtues, and the hero of their ballad is too often the criminal. The bold robber stands to their minds as the buccaneers and marooners of the Spanish Main stood to seventeenth-century England. He is the Man Who Dared—that is all—and if justice overtakes him, their sympathies, of course, follow him all the more.
Last night as I lay sleeping,
I dreamt a pleasant dream;
I dreamt I was down in Moscow,
'way down by Pearly stream;
The prettiest girl beside me, had come to go my bail;
I woke up, broken-hearted, in Knoxville County jail.
In come my jailer, about nine o'clock,
A bunch of keys was in his hand, my cell door to unlock,
Saying, "Cheer you up, my prisoner, for I heard some voices
say You're bound to hear your sentence some time to-day."
In come my mother, about ten o'clock,
Saying, "Oh, my lovin' Johnny, what sentence have you got?"
"The jury found me guilty, and the judge a-standin' by
Has sent me down to Knoxville to lock me up to die."
The Gambling Man
I have played cards in England,
I have played cards in Spain,
I always played the high-low jack,
And never lost a game.
My mammy used to talk to me
Of things I hadn't seen; Said she,
"My boy, you'll be in the workhouse
Before you are sixteen."
I knew she was a-talkin'
But I thought she was in fun,
But I had to wear the ball and chain
Before I was twenty-one.
I'll play cards with a white man
And I'll play with him fair;
I'll play the hat right off of his head,
And I'll play him for his hair.
I've gambled away my pocket book;
I've gambled away my comb;
I've gambled away all the money I had,
And now I will go home.
There are simple dance times, such as "Citico," "Shady Grove," and "Muskrat," to which a mere shuffling step is measured, the couples dancing in an "eight-handed set."
Romantic love as a motif is almost altogether absent throughout the mountaineer's music. It is a subject of which he is very shy. His passion is not a thing to be proclaimed from the housetops. Once married, his affection is a beautiful thing, faithful to whatever end; but he does not sing of it.
The young men and maidens have, however, something that stands to them instead of love-songs—almost, one suspects, instead of wooing. These are the "kissing games," half dance, half romping child-play. They are next of kin to the old May-pole dance—real playing at love—games in which much choosing of partners takes place, and many kisses are taken openly, in wholesome lightness of heart as part of the game. These are such games as the children of more civilized societies play; but the mountain children rarely organize their frolics into games; their sport is scarcely more elaborate than the romping of colts in a pasture, or the imitative pranks of monkeys. They are half-grown lads and girls who sing these songs, and tall bachelors are not in the least ashamed of joining in with wholehearted abandon.
Hit's over the river to feed my sheep;
Hit's over the river, Charley;
Hit's over the river to feed my sheep
And see my lonesome darling.
You stole my partner, to my dislike,
You stole my partner, to my dislike,
You stole my partner, to my dislike,
And also my dear darling.
Til have her back before daylight, etc.
The following is a game of marriage, with a ceremony of joining hands:
All around this world so straight
Go choose the one to be your mate.
The ceremony completed, they dance in a ring around the happy pair:
Kiss the bride and kiss her sweet;
Now you rise upon your feet.
Another gives a picture of a burlesque paradise:
Where coffee grows on white-oak trees,
The river runs with brandy;
The boys are made with lumps of gold,
And the girls are sweet as candy.
"Weevily Wheat" is very old and very popular. It is more like a dance than a game:
0 law, mother, my toes are sore,
Tra la la la la la la;
Dancing on your sandy floor,
Tra la la la la la la.
Your weevily wheat isn't fit to eat,
And neither is your barley;
1 won't have none of your weevily wheat
To make a cake for Charley.
Charley he is a handsome lad,
Charley is a dandy;
Charley he is the very one
That sold his hat for brandy.
Your weevily wheat isn't fit to eat,
Nor neither is your barley;
We'll have some flour in half an hour
To make a cake for Charley.
It is not improbable that the "Charley" of these songs is the Prince Charlie of Jacobite ballads. "Over the River, Charley," may or may not be an echo of "Over the Waters to Charlie," for a large proportion of the mountain people are descended from Scotch Highlanders who left their homes on account of the persecutions which harassed them during Prince Charlie's time, and began life anew in the wilderness of the Alleghenies.
The mountaineers sing many ballads of old England and Scotland. Their taste in music has no doubt been guided by these, which have come down from their ancestors. Indeed, so prone are they to cling to tradition that it is often difficult to distinguish these from their own modern compositions, especially as many have been recast, words, names of localities, and obsolete or unfamiliar phrases having been changed to fit their comprehension—Chester town being substituted for London town, and the like. Here is one exactly as it was sung to me by two young girls in the mountains:
The Ladie Bright [Child 79]
It was a ladie bright;
Each child she had was three;
She sent them off to a Northern State
For to learn their gramarie.
They had been gone but a little time—
Two months, perhaps, or three—
Till sickness spread all over the land
And swept her babes away.
She prayed if there was a King in Heaven
Who chose to wear a crown,
That He would send them home that night
Or in the morning soon.
Twas twelve long months, about Christmastide,
The night being cold and long,
The three little ones came running home,
And into their mother's arms.
She set a table before them soon,
On it spread bread and wine,
"Now, come along my little babes,
Come, eat and drink of mine."
"I may not eat of your bread, my mother,
Nor drink none of your wine."
She fixed a bed in the back room side,
On it spread a clean sheet,
And over the top spread a golden skirt
For to make a sweeter sleep.
"Awake, awake," said the oldest one,
Now soon the cock will crow.
I see our Saviour smiling down,
And to Him we must go."
Some of the best instrumental music is of a descriptive nature, reflecting vividly the incidents of every-day life. Peculiar fingerings of the strings, close harmonies, curious snaps and slides and twangs, and the accurate observations of an ear attuned to all the sounds of nature, enter largely into the composition of these. In the "Cackling Hen" the cackle, hard, high, and cheerfully prosaic, is remarkably well rendered, as may be easily seen.
"Big Jim" is a dance tune in which the major melody drops suddenly into a running repetition of two or three minor notes, beautifully like the drumming of rain on a cabin roof.
In the "Fox-Chase," the baying of the hounds, from the eager start of the pack as they take up the trail to the last lingering yelp, after the quarry is treed, is given by the banjo accompaniment. The spoken "patter" runs along irrespective of rhythm, interpolated irregularly with the hunting-cry. It is almost impossible to reduce the effect to musical notation; the emphasis is all on the hound's deep note; the thumb-string, while almost imperceptible to the ear, still plays an important part in producing the rhythm.
It begins with a regular movement, which grows more and more rapid and exciting as it progresses; then, as the fox is treed, the close comes, suddenly, with the baying of "Old Sounder."
Boys, blow up the dogs and let's have a fox-chase.
Get the horn and give her a toot.
Call up the dogs and we'll go down on the creek.
Whoopee! Go it, Lead!
Come on, boys, and let's go down on the point of the ridge and hear this fox-chase.
They will fetch him out on the other side.
Whoopee! Go it, Lead!
Come on, old dog! Whoopee!
Just listen at those dogs rim that fox!
Listen, boys! I believe they have run him down in the gulf; we can just hear them down in there.
Whoopee! Go it, Lead!
Just listen at 'em, boys! They have started him out of the creek.
Whoopee! Come on, old dogs!
Come, boys, let's go round on the point of the ridge and hear that race.
Whoopee! Just listen at Old Sounder!
Boys, they are bringing him out on the ridge.
Just hear old Lead-Bow! Bow! Wow! Wow!
Come on, boys; you will miss the best part of the race.
"Whoopee! Hold 'em down, Rocks!
Boys, I can't stay here any longer—
I've got to go to those dogs.
I believe I hear old Lead at that old tree—bow, wow, wow!
Let's go to them—they are treed on Round Knob.
Whoopee! Coming to you, old dogs!
As I write these songs, old memories come drifting on their melody—memories of drowsy noons and the tankle-tump-a-tankle of the banjo on the porch, and the thump-chug, thump-chug of the batten as the mother's shuttle went patiently to and fro; of yodels ringing down the gulch; of spinning-wheel songs, old Scotch ballads blurred together with the crescendo and diminuendo of the whirling spokes; of the crooning "By-ee . . . By-ee . . ." that lulls little children to sleep; of the laugh and leap of dancers bounding through "Cripple Creek" at the bidding of a man told off to call the figures; of red firelight flickering over an impromptu play party—neighbor lads and girls singing and romping through all the evolutions of those intricate games of courtship, in which the couples are never finally mated, saluting and pirouetting, and following and flouting; of wilder nights at "protracted meeting," when, an awed and fascinated child, I clung to the wall or clambered on the benches to be out of harm's way; of the ripple of water and the drone of bees-- Had I but words to say how these tunes are bound with the life of the singer, knit with his earliest impressions, and therefore dearer than any other music could ever be—impossible to forget as the sound of his mother's voice!
Crude with a tang of the Indian wilderness, strong with the strength of the mountains, yet, in a way, mellowed by the English of Chaucer's time—surely this is folk-song of a high order. May it not one day give birth to a music that shall take a high place among the world's great schools of expression?
NOTE: For assistance in writing the score of these melodies, I am indebted to Professor Roy L. Smith and to Mrs. Arnold, of Chattanooga.