Cantànima

One surprising aspect of my conversion to Catholicism was the change to my moods. Its clearest effect lay in the music I listened to and, eventually, the music I sing.

Reinforcement

As is customary, in high school I began both to listen to and to appreciate popular music. I had my favorites, but nothing really took off with me until one day, while flipping through the cable channels, I happened upon the video to Comfortably Numb from Pink Floyd’s “Delicate Sound of Thunder”. The lyrics somehow struck a chord in me, and the guitar solo was of a style I had never really heard before, and really liked. From then on I set about acquiring their albums, memorizing the lyrics to many songs, and musing on their meanings.

That was not good for me.

A strong introversion, the anguish of adolescence, and some experience of my youth left me alienated from most peers. A lot of Pink Floyd’s music deals with alienation, so listening to it touched a nerve, but any relief was brief. Overall, it nurtured and nourished that alienation. I already found it difficult to interact with others; a growing sense of alienation made matters worse. The increased difficulty of interaction prompted me to listen to it more, leading to a feedback loop.

I wouldn’t claim this would happen to everyone, but it’s surely no accident that some twenty years years later, when I mentioned my then-waning interest in Pink Floyd to another professor, he remarked, “Ah, ‘sad bastard music’.” — Not only did I not disagree, I laughed, because by then the effect was rather plain.

Release

The reader will be forgiven for expecting a disquisition on how Catholicism liberated me from the oppression of good secular music and lifted me up through crap “Christian” music. Nothing could be further from the truth. Not only did I keep listening to Pink Floyd, Supertramp, Vangelis, and others, I was the first person in Flagstaff to buy The Division Bell on the day of its release, shortly after the embargo ended. (I don’t recall the exact time, but I was in the store late at night.) I loved it, was delighted with their first album in a decade, and hoped it would lead to more albums soon.

I didn’t even care for the Great Gregorian Chant Craze of 1994, when the Benedictine monks of San Domingo de Silos topped the charts with an album of Gregorian chants. I didn’t understand the fuss, and to be honest, I still don’t — I love to sing chant during prayer, but I don’t understand the appeal of listening to it casually.

That said, there was a change: I began to sing happily while walking the streets of Flagstaff: not Pink Floyd, not Supertramp, not even the popular songs of the day. In particular, two poems in that previosuly-mentioned Book of Catholic Prayer had made an impression on me: Lead, Kindly Light by John Henry Newman and O Joyous Light,✗I can’t find this translation anywhere online. It was very close to the version listed as that of the Book of Common Prayer, but I remember it slightly differently. a plain verse translation of the ancient Greek hymn Phos Hilaron.

The book contained no tunes, so I had to adapt, but rather than familiar tunes, I began to sing melodies previously unknown to me. They are not particularly strange, but they have stuck with me — I gladly sing them still! — and you can even find one on this site.

Later I also started to pray the Hours according to some simple melodies, partly of my devising, partly based on existing Gregorian melodies. During my time in seminary, one hymnbook publisher had a series of “worship aids” who titles were all one portmanteau that ended with “song”: Ritualsong, and… uhm, well, I thought they had more, maybe I misremember. In any case, that prompted me to title the notebook that held my tunes “Soulsong”. That sounds a bit silly in English, whereas Cantànima, a Latin neologism of mine,✠No one tell me Latin is dead; I’m having too much fun living with it. And I don’t even speak it all that well. sounded more impressive, if only because Latin makes everything sound impressive.

That neologism appealed to me so much that I’ve used it to name this website. It also led me to organize the site as a collection of foreign-language hymns I like, especially ancient ones, or least medieval ones. But there are quite a few modern ones, as well. — Well, modern-ish.

Relapse

My first year at seminary was fantastic. I felt as if I were in my element: prayer, study, and service. But that’s a topic for another time.

During what was supposed to be my first pastoral summer and the year following, the sense of alienation began to return — only this time, it was alienation from my diocese. A fundamental difference of outlook with the pastor of the parish to which I had been assigned, friction with the diocesan brothers who accompanied me, and a series of negative impressions during the fall of 1995 all contributed, as did a massive personal failing. That’s also a topic for another time.

I was still listening to a lot of secular music then, and the music I sang was in tension with the music I listened to. It wasn’t Pink Floyd this time, but some popular music that appealed to me, commonly played on the radio or on television. But as with Pink Floyd, the music wasn’t the cause of my issues, not at all; rather, it served as negative feedback, and probably contributed to my leaving when I did.

(Then again, I was such a wreck when I left that at most it accelerated the process.)

Recovery

Some ten years ago I realized that I was not only not listening to Pink Floyd anymore, I didn’t care to listen to them anymore. When they released their final album of instrumental music, I listened to a few tracks, and while they sounded familiar, I was able to shrug and walk away, not particularly interested in listening to more, let alone buying it.

It wasn’t just Pink Floyd. I didn’t care much for any secular music anymore. Some of it is the massive change in style, sure, both musical and lyrical. But I don’t feel much interest in the music of my youth, either, nor of any age. I just don’t care to listen to music, period.

I still sing, especially when walking alone and around sundown, but also during the day, annoying my wife and children with songs whose melodies are riffs on the popular tunes they inflict on me, and whose lyrics are an absolutely absurd pastiche of English, Italian, Russian, and infantile. Pro-tip: As a general rule, just about any pop song can be improved by changing its topic to that of tickles. (e.g., “They see me rollin’, they hatin’” is immeasurably better as “They see me tickle, they giggle.” If you don’t believe that, then you’ve never had young children.)

How did this happen? In part, it’s a change where I don’t much care for music unless I can participate in it. But I also don’t much care for music that feeds into whatever I’m feeling.

More to the point, what I want from music is something that, to use St. Hildegard’s words above, brings the sweetness of the songs of heaven to our life here on earth. If I’m going to suffer a feedback effect, I want it to be from something that strengthens my orientation to that absolute reality, rather than the evanescent realities of this world. I kind of prefer when the music comes from my heart, but I’m not averse to a good hymn.

And no, I can’t stand “Christian” music. Dunno why. De gustibus non disputandum, I guess.