In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Putrid and Sublime
  • David Huddle (bio)

Her Song

We’ve finished dinner when Nick, my son-in-law, decides to show us Indie’s talent. A yellow lab, Indie (also known as “Boo Boo”) has been resting quietly underneath the table where we’re sitting over coffee. Nick puts “Lolita Ya Ya” by The Ventures on the stereo at a medium volume. When the song’s first notes sound, we hear Indie scrambling to stand and make her way out from under the table. In the center of the room she faces the speakers, stops, begins to howl–and goes on howling, in a state of what appears to be dog happiness. Nick lets it play until the end, and while it plays, the six of us humans cackle and hoot until we’re teary-eyed. Indie’s not deterred, or else she interprets our laughter as cheers of approval–which it sort of is. Her stance is formal, not entirely dissimilar from that of a sturdy Lincoln Center soprano performing a heartbreaking aria. At the end of the song, Indie turns away from the speakers, wags her tail, licks her chops, and modestly makes her way back under the table. She also does “Happy Birthday,” Nick tells us.

A Call

At Bread Loaf, I’m throwing a lawn party for my students. Out on the meadow, I’ve set up croquet wickets and posts, a cooler, a table of refreshments, and a battery powered boom box. When I put on Lesley Garrett’s Diva! A Soprano at the Movies and turn the volume up, suddenly the almost supernaturally clear notes of “The Flower Duet” waft out across the meadow. The whole campus seems to go quiet while the two voices–both parts sung by Lesley Garrett–infuse the sunlit space with a passion worthy of the angels. Presently I see a young man, a student, who’s not a member of the class at the edge of the croquet area, half-running toward me. “Professor Huddle,” he says. “What is that?” His voice is urgent, he’s sweating a little. I have to wonder a moment what he might mean, but then I understand and tell him the singer’s name and that I don’t know the name of the song. “I think it’s from an opera,” I say. He’s quiet a moment, taking in more of the song. “I’ve never heard anything like it,” he murmurs. He [End Page 28] steps away from me and, with his eyes half closed, stands listening. When the song’s finished, he walks away.

His Song

It’s a dance for the graduate students, it’s approaching one a.m. in the barn, which is when the party must shut down, the DJ has put on “Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat,” and everybody who can find a partner gets up for the last dance of the night. Standing and watching are some drinkers, some non-dancers, and some who just don’t like the song. But one standing there who does like it is Chuck Morgan, a high school English teacher from Spearfish, South Dakota. Chuck’s shy and overweight and self-conscious about it and, though he attends every dance from start to finish, has never been known to dance. I’m dancing, when I see Chuck is standing still, almost out among the dancers, and he’s leaning forward, eyes shut, belting out the lines, “Yes, I see you got your brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat / Well, you must tell me, baby / How your head feels under somethin’ like that.” Oh baby, Chuck Morgan is singing like he and Dylan wrote the song together, like that song is his own personal war chant or the state anthem of South Dakota. I’m not the only one there on the floor who takes notice of Chuck and his singing. We dancers make a kind of circle around him to catch his updraft of joy.

My Song

I take a pride in my taste in music, but I adore at least half a dozen really putrid recordings, one of which–maybe the most egregious example of...

pdf