Opening the Music Box

When I was a boy, the mechanical movements of gadgets, instruments and toys fascinated me.  I remember my Mother’s music box, a plain deal box scented with the fragrance of her perfume and scented talcum powder.  If opened, the movement inside played a song as a ballerina twirled.  I was fascinated to discover how winding the mainspring and increasing its tension enabled the ballerina to spin and the music cylinder to turn.  As the cylinder turned, small studs on the surface of the cylinder moved the tines of a metal comb, and a thin melody was struck.  The mainspring’s coil of flexible metal released and spent its energy, and the cylinder slowed until the last note played.  As the tension of the coil decreased, my anticipation of which note would be the last note played increased. I hoped that final note would be the last note of the melody, and I waited intently for the spring to wind down.  Most of the time, the cylinder stopped mid-melody.  

Psychologists classify memories associated with time, place or emotion as episodic memories; they are memories of context.  If the context is personal, the memory could be called an autobiographical memory.   The experience of listening to a work of music can evoke these kinds of memories and associated emotions through the use of tonality, musical shape, pitch, key, intensity and other music elements.  I found this true in my own experience as I recently re-listened to Elmer Bernstein’s main title to the film, To Kill a Mockingbird, and the recollection of my Mother’s music box. 

The film--based on Harper Lee’s coming-of-age novel about growing up in the Deep South during the 30s and against the backdrop of an accusation of rape—describes how complicated, complex and incomprehensible adult life, morals and attitudes can be when seen through the eyes of children.  This leitmotif of a child’s view of the world is expertly depicted as Bernstein’s title music unfolds.  The score begins with a waltz-like melody in ¾ time, unadorned, clear and pure, played by solo piano in a high register.  Bernstein allows the last notes of the motif to fade and end, and a brief rest follows.  A second section begins as strings and woodwinds enter and provide a moving background to a flute solo that introduces a new motif.  The texture thickens, and a series of shifting rhythmic accents produces instability and confusion; for a time, the flute solo is almost lost.  The phrase ends, and the piano returns, but now the piano’s voice is matched in duet with a celesta as they play the waltz melody.  A flute solo with string accompaniment follows the duet in a more tranquil and calming counterpoint than the previous section. When the solo finishes, strings and brass to a full orchestra statement of the waltz motif.  Instead of the simple opening statement, the melody ebbs and flows in intensity, and some notes are robbed of their full, original duration.  The orchestral waltz fades, and the final section repeats the motif of the first but, in a setting that provokes more tension and instability.  Just as my Mother’s music box stopped when the mainspring wound down, and the melody ended without resolution, Bernstein’s work ends unresolved. The piano, accompanied by accordion and strings, ends the piece without sounding the theme’s final note.

Most probably the waltz structure and piano solo in the work sparked my recollection of the music box, but as I listened to the piece, I reflected on a number of ideas and themes.  Why are some memories from childhood clear and pure and others faded with time or confused by subsequent events? How often do singular events, such as the central event in To Kill A Mockingbird, affect a change in view, as opposed to a summation of changes, and which have greater influences on development?  What prevents the unwinding and resolution of conflicts?  When I wind down and my life concludes, will it be with a sense of completion, or without resolution?