One morning not long ago, I’d awakened to the sound of music. It wasn’t from the neighbor’s all-rock radio station. It wasn’t my son Andrew spinning some of Dad’s sides, either. This music was in my head, a musical “leftover” from a dream I’d had. Its rhythm was tropical, and its melodies were French, but reminiscent of early New Orleans jazz. Music as it was played on the island of Martinique, many years ago. I suppose all this is a bit strange. Some days, I hear Louis Armstrong as I wake up. Other days, Charlie Parker. Occasionally, Ravel, or maybe Edith Piaf, or Bechet or Billie, or Duke or Pres or Leadbelly or Bix. Maybe a TV show’s theme song or a commercial jingle now and then. Today, it was old Martinique music. I fixed some coffee, and padded over to the LP shelves. I pulled out a rather beat-up 10-inch LP on the Dial label. It dates from the mid-1950s, and is entitled Dance Music of Martinique.
I received it long ago as a gift from the late Bill Campbell, who was probably my most significant teacher about music, philosophy, and life. I put the record on the turntable and lowered the arm. The joyous opening track began to play, and Eugene Delouche, one of two exceptional clarinetists associated with the music, began to make me smile (as he has each of the hundreds of times I’ve played this record). It’s genuinely happy music, meant for good-natured (and
