When Death Approached: The Floofy Swan

I might have been a little hard on ol' Orlando Gibbons, there, the madrigal composer, who, after all, did write some mighty melodic songs. Sure, he whacked the bejesus out of that silver swan, but he also got in some pointed commentary. "Farewell, all joys! Oh Death, come close my eyes" is followed by "More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise."

The bit about the geese and the fools is timeless. It's every bit as appropriate now as it was in the seventeenth century. Doesn't matter when you live, you can count on being surrounded by idiots. But I'm not sure it's all that fair to the geese.

Ducks and geese and swans all roll off the same general template, the Anseriformes, with a lot of the same attributes, only in different sizes. I suspect the geese are assumed to be fools because they go off honking all the time, like a clarinet recital by first-graders. Gibbons's silver swan, on the other hand, says nothing at all, a tactic that makes one seem wise, except in the case of Clarence Thomas. The silver swan sings a swan song upon her death and that's the whole repertoire. At least, that's what a lot of people believed.

Beware.

But even Mute Swans make a racket. So it isn't true. Not only that, but the song the swan supposedly sings upon death probably is no such thing, but the sound of its lungs collapsing and forcing air through its massive tracheal loop, with a coda later when the dead swan bloats up and the gas farts out. Much the same effect could be achieved with a bagpipe or accordion dropped from a high place, as has been demonstrated many, many, many times.

The actual moment, featuring my entire sister.

The other thing that's not really fair is this idea that swans are all that wonderful just because they're fancy. People think poorly of the goose but revere the big, white, graceful, fluffy swan. I know my sister and I admired one when we happened upon it in a lake near her house. "Look how beautiiful," she said, as it floofed up and advanced smoothly toward us at the shoreline. "Get my camera," she said, and crouched down and prepared to snap a tremendous close-up of the floofiness and regal neck.

And then the swan hove up and grobbed my entire sister and flang her in the lake.

Evidently, I commemorated the event in silk.

To be fair, my sister was not at all a large person, but she wasn't threatening anyone, and that swan was an asshole. We read up later and discovered that your fluffy swan is a homicidal swan, and you'd best keep your distance until it sleeks back down. Basically, it's no improvement on an irascible goose, except it's bigger.

I will admit it didn't sing a note. But that's just because it's sneaky.

Historical note: I didn't write much of anything for about thirty years, but interesting turns of phrase appeared in my head often enough that I thought of myself as a writer. I never wrote any of them down, but I did remember the one about the swan and my sister, and I thought: some day I'm going to put that in something. So I just did.

The Silver Swanne

I miss our madrigal group. I do. There's something awfully satisfying about making music with other people. Even if our instruments are not in tune, and ours weren't, it's fun. Nobody pays much attention to anybody but the first soprano, and with Dorothy nailing down that spot, we probably didn't sound too bad, from a distance. Madrigals are particularly fun because they're written with tight, interesting harmonies. Even the alto gets the occasional star turn instead of the usual mid-range mayonnaise that's only in there to keep the tenors from bumping into the sopranos. You do not want to bump into a soprano. We altos sacrifice our bodies to keep the peace and keep down the chafing.

I didn't used to be an alto. I sang soprano in the church choirs, and while anything above high F was painful to me and anyone else around, I could hit it in a pinch. I'd be in the front of the group on account of being small but never sang the really high parts. Guess you could call me a minute second soprano.

That's the worst thing about quitting church, if you don't seek out other choral groups. You quit singing, and in no time your range compresses down to a wafer. Since the alto parts rarely ask much of the singer, it works out. You get to doodle around with your allotted five or six notes but you do make a contribution. You're not the steering wheel or the engine but everyone likes cup-holders.

The madrigal group met periodically. Oh, we cut loose with our merry lads and bonny lasses, but we couldn't quit until we'd wallowed in The Silver Swan. The Silver Swan, in case you don't know, is a long drawn-out murder of a very depressing bird, and almost impossible to sing without clutching your chest and keeling over and making gack noises. The poor silver swan, living, had no note. Didn't sing a lick until she was at death's door, and then sang her first and last and sang no more. Farewell all joys! Oh Death, come close my eyes!

This madrigal should most properly be sung in a bathtub with razor blades.

Once we'd slain the swan, we were free to go, but we usually had to knock back a tankard of ale first just to regain our desire to live. Orlando Gibbons wrote The Silver Swanne in the early seventeenth century and it's his best-known effort, but he did bang out quite the oeuvre, hitting many of the same themes (musically, this is known as a "rut"). For instance, there was his Daintie Bird. Yet another bird, this one encaged, and so like the composer! Both imprisoned, both singing to please a woman, but unlike the daintie bird who sings to live, he sings and drops dead.

Or "Farewell, all Joyes," in which he begs to "let me die lamenting."

It's the dang swanne all over again.

Orlando Gibbons died at age 41, which is said to have surprised his peers, but jeezy peezy, they should've seen this coming. He hadn't written himself any alternatives. They called it apoplexy at the time, one of those antique general-purpose deaths, like consumption, that could refer to any number of things but got the job done. Three hundred years down the road, genius pianist Glenn Gould declared Gibbons his favorite composer, but Glenn Gould would fold up and fall apart if the air temperature wasn't just so, and groaned all the way through his pieces, and basically died of hypochondria. An apoplexy, actually. Cue the swanne.