`The Human Sweetness'

Unexpected pleasures are the truest. We had an impromptu dinner in the food court of a nearby shopping mall, an improvised menu of Thai and Italian. A high-school band was tuning up behind us – 25 kids in white shirts, black slacks and skirts. After a nervous, wordy intro from the teacher, the reed section heaved into “In the Mood,” a note-for-note clone of Glenn Miller’s arrangement. The acoustics were terrible, the command of rhythm uncertain and the sound system plagued with feedback. The shoppers never stopped gabbing, nor did mall management turn off the Muzak, but the music was great. The kids and I danced in our seats. Philip Larkin described his undergraduate reaction to hearing Fats Waller’s “Dream Man” and Rosetta Howard’s “If You’re a Viper” as “grinning, jigging wordlessness, interspersed with a grunt or two at especially good bits.” That was us.

Next up was “I Wanna Be Like You” from The Jungle Book soundtrack. Not bad but I would have chosen another rave-up, maybe “Sing, Sing Sing,” something to keep the feet moving. The third number was a serious misstep, a Gershwinesque tone poem with shifting tempos and too much clarinet. The musicians were shaky and lost their way in the murk. The band director, who probably selected the piece, was grimacing. We left before the end of the song but I still felt exhilarated by “In the Mood.” I don’t even like Glenn Miller, but sometimes it’s best to drop the critical stance, relax a little and enjoy. Sometimes sophistication and analysis can be a real drag. My pleasure was heightened by the unexpected appearance of a jazz band in a suburban mall, on a Friday evening after a long week – a gift utterly gratuitous. The Scottish poet Iain Crichton Smith, in “Two Girls Singing,” knew when to be merely human and enjoy it:

“It neither was the words nor yet the tune.
Any tune would have done and any words.
Any listener or no listener at all.

“As nightingales in rocks or a child crooning
in its own world of strange awakening
or larks for no reason but themselves.

“So on the bus through late November running
by yellow lights tormented, darkness falling,
the two girls sang for miles and miles together

and it wasn’t the words or tune. It was the singing.
It was the human sweetness in that yellow,
The unpredicted voices of our kind.”