Where There's a Whistle
I'm pretty sure my ability to write music comes from my dad. I have no other musical blood ancestors to blame. Dad couldn't read a note of music or play an instrument (he washed out on the trumpet in elementary school), but he had a good ear and he could carry a tune. Best of all? He could whistle like nobody's business. His technique was astonishing, as nimble as a chimpanzee. And he could improvise for hours. He would putter around the house, spinning endlessly inventive, wildly acrobatic variations on the simplest of tunes. One of Dad's favorite songs from his own childhood was "Dunderbeck's Machine." It used a familiar folk melody to tell the story of an evil butcher whose sausage production flowed in suspicious concord with the disappearances of animals from the nearby pound: Dunderbeck, oh, Dunderbeck! How could you be so mean? I'll bet that you are sorry You invented that machine. Now dogs and cats and long-tailed rats No lon...