By Charlotte K. Jarmy

Reflections

I wish I could remember the writer who wrote about “guilty pleasures.” The words have remained in my mind and need to be dealt with. I usually try to hide my delight in subjects that other people might have vastly different opinions about. Like music, for example. We subscribe to the San Jose Symphony and I generally enjoy the classic composers, particularly Mozart and Beethoven. In fact, there’s only one well-known composer that I actually dislike: Bach. I probably stand alone in this negative attitude toward the august J.S. However, since I decided to be open about my guilty pleasures, I want to add what displeases me as well.

This is difficult to write, but I adore the music of Tchaikovsky. I always have and I always will. He speaks to my soul. (Oh, God, did I actually write that?) I’m sorry, but I need to feel music, not just listen to it.

When the loveliness reaches a certain level, I may even cry, for I realize that the promised beauty of the music will never come to pass in our less than perfect world.

Now that I have opened Pandora’s box, I might as well share my other guilty musical pleasures. There are songs that thrill me and make my toes curl up. When I hear Whitney Houston sing “I’ll Always Love You,” I stop whatever I’m doing and revel in the swoop and turns of her voice. I’ve even had friends look at me in disbelief when I shushed a whole table of noisy diners and asked for silence when Whitney shared her pain. It makes for great dinner conversation.

And then there’s Julie Andrews singing “Edelweis.” The words don’t mean anything to me, but the melody catches me. It’s the only song that allows me to sing along without mourning the fact that I have lost my voice, like Beverly Sills. Besides, when Ron was in the hospital years ago, only the songs from “Sound of Music” calmed him down while both eyes were totally covered. Syrupy but blessed.

I have to go even farther back in time to confess to another guilty pleasure. Deanna Durbin singing “Say A Prayer For The Boys Over There” gave me goose bumps and had an entire theater audience sniffling, just as Hollywood knew we would. Her hair blew in the breeze and her eyes teared up as we all wept on cue. Delicious!

But there are experiences with music that I am not so embarrassed to reveal. While other people enjoy Ravel’s “Bolero,” I have the irresistable urge to get up and dance to its thundering sounds, building up to ecstasy. Dancing alone to “Bolero” used to be my main source of exercise, until I discovered water aerobics. I swooped around the living room for twenty minutes, feeling great, but my carpet looked the worse for wear! Who cared? I unleashed my dramatic emotions and nobody was there to laugh.

I also react to the music of Jean Paul Rampal, who plays to the angels with his flute held lovingly in his hands. He so appeals to my desire for the quiet pleasure that needs no apology or excuse. You’re right if you judge me as romantic and sentimental. Often music brings those traits out in me.

A friend sent me an e-mail with a philosophical essay. Several sentences fit my mood: “Dance like nobody’s watching. Sing like nobody’s listening. Live like it’s Heaven on Earth.” Now why couldn’t I create those words. Guilty pleasures? I think not.

If you have some, please e-mail me at charkrep@webtv.net

Jarmy’s column is published the third week of the month. Send comments and suggestions to her c/o editor Bruce Barton at bruceb@latc.com.