If anything is musically analogous to this historical fermata, it must be the chorus-length note held by Carmen Lombardo on the Royal Canadians’ classic (and uncharacteristically jazzy) recording of “St. Louis Blues.” It’s been the same note over the past few months and has morphed from Carmen’s unwavering saxophone to what appears to be a (justly) forgotten work by John Cage, calculated to last indefinitely. It’s a note I hear while waking and in my dreams. If only it were merely tinnitus.
The sameness of each day under the specter of COVID-19 is so uniform it’s almost bracing. Yes, we are healthy, but not quite well. We are safe, but not sound. With the inevitable news that a particular festival is not taking place, we shrug and say, “So it goes.” The weeping for each incalculable loss that would have ensued pre-coronavirus is replaced by mere resignation. Live music? Forget it. Someday, probably—if anyone is still interested. Not in AD 2020, the Year of the Virus.
When the emergency started, it had its element of fun. It was like a power failure where we had a break from the connectedness of everyday life, where we rummage through the kitchen cupboard for candles and drink warmish beer and talk over the flickering light. And it is a relief to unplug from All That. Not going out for a while? Nobody else is, either. Cool!
When the mood slips from the sensatio
