On a clear day
Rise and look around you,
Well it was indeed a clear, sunny day. I had just delivered a mid-afternoon talk on the history of Calypso to an audience of fellow-travelers as we steamed across the Caribbean Sea towards Philipsburg, St. Maarten.
Giving talks on these glamorous ships winds me up, as does the chance to chat with attendees, many of whom have their own expertise in the area. One gentleman told me about his memories of sitting up late with the great Calypsonian legend “The Mighty Sparrow,” marveling at his magnificent extempo, or rapier-sharp improvisations. It’s nice when the words from a podium match up with real life.
Suddenly, while pouring myself a cup of tea in the café on Deck 5, a memory from my real life blasted through me. A song I had long forgotten drifted over the speakers.
And you see who you are.
I first encountered On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (Alan J. Lerner and Burton Lane 1965) at a delicate point in my life. I wasn’t the happiest kid in high school—for no reason, I might add. I was moody and resentful of the fact that, as a talented pianist, I needed to practice long hours. Top grades were expected too. None of this was hard, but I resisted much of it.
But then, in the 10th grade, I was asked to do something positively glamorous! I was hired to accompany a girl named Rita who sang On a Clear You Can See Forever in a beauty pageant. I don’t remember whether she was vying for “Miss Roanoke Valley” or was already a queen, competing for the Miss Virginia pageant. But I can tell you that pageants were a big thing back in those days. And while I’d played the organ for fancy weddings, the sparkly atmosphere of a beauty pageant was far different.
We rehearsed a lot. Rita was nervous, despite her lovely voice. Broadway songs are never as easy to sing as they seem.
On a clear day
How it will astound you
That the glow of your being
Outshines every star.
Well she shined a lot that night, although she didn’t win the crown. She won a special talent award and something like Miss Congeniality. I have no idea what her future held: she was a mighty senior from a high school across town and I, a lowly sophomore, was out of her class.
But I gained two important things from the venture. First, I fell in love with accompanying singers. A good accompanist performs the song as much as the singer, yet must know how to retreat into a subsidiary role. Nonetheless, the accompanist breathes each breath with the singer and is attuned to the curve and strength of every phrase. The accompanist stands ready in a split-second to advance, retreat, or cover whatever is needed should there be a faltering on the part of the vocalist. It is never dull.
I also learned that I would never be glamorous. In awe of the girls aglow with rhinestones and perfect makeup, I listened to their chatter as if it were a foreign language.
Since those days I have spent a substantial part of my life in fancy dress, performing and speaking on glamorous stages. But I never gained comfort with the idea, or process, of being glamorous. Instead, what I did gain is a chance to live out the lyrics of the song:
You will follow every mountain, sea, and shore.
You will see from far and near a world you’ve never seen before.
When Rita sang these words, I had a child’s limited view of the future. I doubted I’d ever get past my back yard, much less past the Shenandoah Mountains that ringed my hometown. But things turned out differently. I’ve had opportunities to follow mountains, seas, and shores in ways unimaginable to me, even today.
Many a singer has put a mark on this lovely tune, including Frank Sinatra, Shirley Bassey, Johnny Mathis, and Harry Connick Jr. But I’ll always treasure the voice of Rita, who stepped on stage in a shimmer of sequins, and sold the song to her audience. That song served as a promise unaware, pointing to the clear skies that, one day, would lie before me.
