And still the year’s music beat on, cheerful, love-crazed, sun-drenched for a day. White music went black, stealing funk’s righteous refusal. The Motown sound migrated even to cities whose cores had not recently burned down. At the same time, Monterey sent pop into places even my brother couldn’t ridicule. Jonah brought home the first rock album he ever paid real money for. The Beatles, in high-camp Edwardian military band regalia peeked out from the cover with a cast of dozens, including effigies of their former selves. “You have to hear this.” Jonah parked me under two cantaloupe halves of padded earphones and made me listen to the last cut, its slow, cacophonous orchestral climb to a forte major triad that spread into eternity. “Where do you think they got that idea? Ligeti? Penderecki? Pop ripping off the classics again, just like Tin Pan Alley used to do Rachmaninoff.”
He made me listen to the whole record, pushing his favorite bits. From English music hall to raga, from sonata quotes to sinkholes of sounds that hadn’t happened yet. “Trippy, huh?” I’d no idea where he learned the word.
The year split into vapor trails as tangled as those cloud-chamber traceries Da studied. Fashion went mad. Safari dresses, cossack blouses, aviator coats, Victorian velvet, silver metallic vinyl space-age miniskirts, Nehru jackets, combat boots with fishnet stockings, culottes with capes: a grandiose splintering into all years and places but this one. Fifty thousand people took to the Mall to protest the war, and three-quarters of a million strolled down Fifth Avenue in New York supporting it. Coltrane died and the U.S. government officially recognized the blues by sending Junior Wells on a goodwill tour to Africa. Che Guevara and George Lincoln Rockwell both died violent deaths. Jonah and I lived our days between flower children and nurse slayers, decolonization and defoliants, Twiggy and Tiny Tim, Hair and The Naked Ape.
We’d be in some hotel room in Montreal or Dallas, watching the news, trying not to drop off the face of the earth, and some story would come on, a space shot or a riot, a love-in or mass strangling, an emperor’s self-coronation or Third World insurgency, and Jonah would shake his head. “Who needs opera, Mule? No wonder the damn thing’s dying. How can opera go head-to-head against this circus?”
We watched that year’s performance race through its acts, all the while waiting for the Met to call, the call that would be Jonah’s delivery and my death sentence. “They’re nervous that I’ve never really sung over an orchestra.” He decided to plump the vita with whatever symphonic solo appearances he could land. He told a bewildered Mr. Weisman to find him anything, with any body of instrumentalists. “I’ve got volume. You know that.”
“This isn’t about your volume, son.” Mr. Weisman, whose fifty-year-old daughter had just died of breast cancer, had taken to calling us his sons. “This is about positioning you. Making people hear what it is you do.”
“I’ll do whatever the audience wants. Why do they need a brand? Can’t they just listen?”
He couldn’t understand the lead time on finding orchestral jobs. “It takes two years to do anything! Jesus, Joey. A read-through, a dress rehearsal, and a performance. Keep the thing fresh.”
He picked up a substitution for a flu-stricken tenor who’d been slated to sing Das Lied von der Erde at Interlochen. The conductor couldn’t find anyone else willing to step in on such short notice. Jonah mastered the treacherously craggy tenor songs in under five weeks. “I was born singing this stuff, Joey.” I sat in the audience with the rest of the weeping public. Da came out for the debut. He sat and listened to his son sail drunkenly on the silent winds of outer space and make a mockery of human misery: Dunkel ist das Leben, ist der Tod. Dark is life, is death. A voice that knew nothing but its own fire veered about in wild precision, fueled by a skill equal to the music’s extremes: Was geht mich denn der Frühling an? Laßt mich betrunken sein! — What can springtime mean to me? Let me be drunken!
People who’d never heard of Jonah’s lieder performances suddenly discovered him. The audience clapped as if they wanted him to come out and do Symphony of a Thousand as an encore. The Detroit Free Press ran that review calling him a “planet-scouting angel.” In truth, they were right. He didn’t live here. His voice was on a long, sweeping search for any part of this backwater galaxy where it might put down for an eon or two.
Just before Chicago and our Orchestra Hall debut, the disastrous piece in Harper’s appeared, calling him a flunky of the white culture game. Jonah thought his career was over. Orchestra Hall would rescind the engagement when they found out. He couldn’t stop reading me the passage that fingered him: “‘Yet there are amazingly talented young black men out there still trying to play the white culture game, even while their brothers are dying in the streets.’ That’s me, boy. Big time back-stabber. Cut you and leave you for dead, if I need to.”
Orchestra Hall didn’t rescind. Despite our preconcert argument about our parents and Emmett Till, and despite a suffocation fit only an hour before the performance, Jonah hit the stage singing — the songs of Schumann, Wolf, and Brahms — and came away to raves.
The Harper’s accusation chewed him up. He’d been passing, and it had never even occurred to him. All those boys his age, ground down, locked out, threatened, beaten, killed, while he’d been granted the safe passage of lightness. All those men, locked up, held down, digging civilization’s ditches, taking the blows, while he was up onstage spinning florid doilies, making time stand still. He’d read the article and cock his head: could it really be?
He canceled two weeks of engagements, claiming the flu. Truth was, he was afraid to show his face in public. He no longer knew what that face looked like to his audience. Not that he’d ever much cared how others saw him. Music was that place where look fell away and sightless sound was all. But here was someone insisting the opposite: Music was just what we put on, after we put on ourselves. How a piece sounded to its listeners had everything to do with who was up there making the sounds.
After a while, Jonah’s horror at the Harper’s piece turned to fascination. It amazed him to think that the article’s writer considered him worth slandering. The attention promoted him to a level of interest he’d never commanded, a player in a drama bigger than any he’d ever starred in. Amazingly talented black man playing the white culture game. Even winning. He turned the formula over and over. Then, in the kind of modulation he excelled in, he threw a little switch in himself. After days of chafing against the label, Jonah decided to revel in it.
He returned to the concert circuit, now blessed by the condemnation. And when the calls from Mr. Weisman came in, with significant symphonic and choral solo offers among them, Jonah’s about-face seemed borne out. People smelled an opera, and they wanted tickets. Harper’s was going to make him notorious.
“Thank the Lord God Almighty for the revolution, Mule. The movement’s opening doors. Providing for our people. Gonna get us a call from the President Lincoln Center.” He rubbed my close-cropped head the way I always hated. “Huh, bro? Culture works. Uplift and elevation. Even the black man’s Al Jolson gotta eat.”
He took to reading the magazine accusation over the telephone to anyone who’d listen. “Where’s your sister when we need her?”
He knew better than I did. “She’s seen it. I’ll bet you anything.”
“You think?” He sounded pleased.
I saw him wondering how to get the article to Lisette Soer, to János Reményi, even to Kimberly Monera, who, in another lifetime, once asked if he was a Moor. I waited for notoriety to change his sound. I couldn’t see how he could get up onstage, week after week, so twisted up, and still manufacture that silk perfection. He sang Beethoven’s Ninth, again at short notice, with the Quad Cities Symphony. When the chorale came — that discredited dream of universal brotherhood, the same notes he’d once scribbled, by ear, underneath the photo of the North American nebula we’d hung on our bedroom wall — I half-expected him to open his mouth and turn hideous, to bray a quarter tone sharp, tremulous and imperial, like those pompous Teutonic goose-honk voices we used to ridicule when we were boys.