There is but one certainty which has always been, and remains in this world – the fact we are all mortal, ‘prince and pauper’ alike; thus we will all die. Thoughts of demise have inevitably come to the fore in recent times due to the ravages of the pandemic, so with this in mind, being a man who loves music, I have pondered some of the musical compositions which might well be sung or played when one exits this mortal coil.
Apparently, next to long favoured hymns such as Abide with Me, The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended, Amazing Grace and The Lord’s my Shepherd, easily the most requested piece of music played at funerals is My Way, almost invariably sung by that icon of 20th century popular melody, Frank Sinatra. I can certainly understand why this is so; it has a memorable tune containing lyrics both perceptive and moving; the great American crooner expresses every syllable with clarity, sincerity and depth of feeling. Indeed, I have often felt that when it is my turn to ‘face the final curtain’ I would be pleased and comforted to have ‘ol’ blue eyes’ remind everyone, in his dulcet tones, that I did in fact do it ‘my way’ as my coffin is wheeled out of the church.
Musing on this recently, however, (and at my age it is a subject which cannot be banished from the mind), I have had second thoughts regarding its desirability. For could not this poignant piece be played upon the occasion of the passing of us all – of the entire human race? Do not we all do it our way? For does not everybody lead a unique existence?
Physically, mentally, intellectually, none of us are exactly the same. We each have our own character, eccentricities, outlooks, opinions and desires; we will have experienced disparate successes, failures and fears. So whilst the observations expressed in what probably is Sinatra’s best known number, also possibly his most thought provoking, may well be accurate, they can have little relevance to the lot and contribution to the world of anybody if the line can be said of everybody.
There are too, other compositions played at funerals, not of a religious nature, which come to mind. Prominent amongst them is No Regrets – Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien (in its original French); sung by Edith Piaf – with its piercing staccato resonance, it is, like Sinatra’s masterpiece, a track with a powerful insightful message, both provocative and personal. It is amongst my favourite songs, partly because of what it says but even more so due to its delivery; The Little Sparrow has, in my opinion, few equals in the articulation of lyrics, her voice stimulating like a hot invigorating shower.
Much as I admire the song and its singer I would not wish it played at my final exit from this world, because it would not in any way reflect my views and recollections when looking back over my life; indeed, I am surprised anyone can review their tenure in this world – especially if it has been a longish one – and lament nothing.
No matter how fulfilling, successful, happy, healthy and worthwhile has been a person’s lifetime, it is surely an exceedingly rare man or woman indeed who cannot say, feel or think that there were aspects and episodes throughout their journey which they could have handled better; decisions made, turnings taken which subsequently proved to be mistaken – and which, ultimately, they bemoan and assuredly would change if they had their time over again.
Over the years I have heard a myriad range of renditions of music accompanying the deceased being borne from the church – and if spared for a while yet no doubt I will hear many more as, at my age, the attending of funerals is a ‘growth industry’.
One, quite recently, which I found touching was Oh My Beloved Father, the choice of a close knit family as they said farewell to their dad. Amongst the most unusual was Buddy Holly singing, I Love You, Peggy Sue – fortunately there was no rock and rolling in the aisles; and one which lingers in the memory was at the service of an old friend who died a couple of years back – Morecambe and Wise’s Bring Me Sunshine; in a sense, it was uplifting.
As for myself, I would like my casket to leave the church to the boisterous notes of John Philip Sousa’s Semper Fidelis.
This is the march to the playing of which Argyle have, for decades, taken to the pitch; it is the one which I would like to enliven proceedings when I depart the field of play. Mind you, not at all certain of my destination once I’ve ‘shuffled off’, perhaps a more realistic choice would be Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire.