Words and music for a sadly changed world

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This article was published 09/05/2024 (546 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

For me, music had become a distraction from dealing with the problems of a planet in upheaval. Perhaps it was all those people on campus, and around town, with earbuds or headphones, listening to their solitary tunes instead of interacting with the world through which they walked.

So, sometimes I sing along to song on a CD, but mostly I drive by myself in silence. When thinking and writing I either need more silence or loud cafeteria noises. Never music.

I tell myself it is because when I listen to music, or to words that others sing, I get pulled into another reality, escaping from my own and what I have to do. Apart from fundraising for projects, music seemed too much like the band playing Nearer My God to Thee as the Titanic sank. Musical consolation in the midst of tragedy is important, but I would rather work to prevent that tragedy, myself.

Being asked to narrate the final concert of the Winnipeg Philharmonic Choir on May 5 has pushed me to rethink my attitude to the value of music in my life today.

Under the artistic direction of Maestro Yuri Klaz (in his 25th year with “The Phil”), the centrepiece of the concert was Robert Paterson’s Choral Suite from A New Eaarth inspired by environmental activist Bill McKibben’s 2010 book, Eaarth: Making a Life on a Tough New Planet.

The extra “a” in symbolizes the daunting reality that the world on which we used to live has disappeared forever, because of how we have changed — and continue to change — the fundamental underlying operating systems of the planet.

Paterson’s choral suite was punctuated by other music, including several songs by (or with) the Chisholm Trio (Brad Derksen, Denis Chan and musical director, Laurie MacKenzie).

Including the idea of a parallel narration (which McKibben did at the first performance of Paterson’s work in 2012), the Phil partnered with the International Institute for Sustainable Development (IISD) for speakers on three related themes: the Prairies; the boreal forest; and water.

The concert opened with a welcome to the land by Knowledge Keeper of Water Laura Horton from the Rainy River First Nations (who later spoke — and sang beautifully — about the gift of water), IISD scientist Dr. Richard Grosshans spoke about his love for the Prairies, and then his colleague, Dr. Michael Paterson, talked about his work at the Experimental Lakes Area (ELA) and his passion for the boreal forest.

I was asked to narrate, to host, and thus weave all these elements together. When I reached out to Bill McKibben, whom I have met in other contexts, and shared the program — asking for some promotional help — he generously (and immediately) responded: “Not to be missed — a chance to reflect on the great crisis of our time, and to emerge from that reflection better able to act forthrightly!”

With lots of other musical competition that day, along with being the first warm Sunday, the house at the Crescent Arts Centre unfortunately was not full. But Bill was right — it was not to be missed.

Weaving music and science together, weaving together the choral tones of a mass choir, mellow acoustic harmonies, and the words and passions of people whose work and life is with the planet as it is right now, was a brilliant idea.

I was at a loss for words myself until a couple of days before the dress rehearsal. Bill’s generous comments in fact made my part feel more intimidating. Given what others would say and sing, asking me to do that weaving seemed a risky decision.

What to say, on a sunny spring day — to people who had paid to be entertained — about the grim realities of a planet in crisis?

I tried to find the right words. The most powerful music we have was written and performed in difficult times for the composer, the performers or the audience — or for all three. So, too, are the powerful words that console us in our grief, but still inspire us to action.

Like our own lives, any concert is performed only once — full of the stutters and stumbles of real people offering their words and their music, as best they can in that moment.

But when we speak and sing from the heart, it is not just an echo of our own voice that we hear, because we become part of a global chorus that unites us, whoever and wherever we are, on a shared journey into an uncertain future.

We need to learn how to live with, and not against, this new “Eaarth.” We can’t merely lament what has been lost, or keep dodging the hard choices that we must make today.

For the sake of — for the love of — all the children of Eaarth, we need to live close to home, focusing on what we can change, where we are.

Peter Denton writes from his home in rural Manitoba.