This Article was
first published in Columbus Monthly June of 2002
Starry, Starry
Night
By Sally Fingerett
Illustration by Mario Noche
 It
was sparkling and dazzling, a clear and luscious Saturday night in the
summer of 2000.1 went out on a date with 4,000 music lovers. I danced
with them all. With my daughter EJ at sleep-away camp, I figured I could
go out, sans curfew. I would put my makeup on in a mirror that wasn't
moving and have a great Saturday night for myself!
A week
earlier, I'd noticed that Don McLean was performing with the Columbus
Symphony Orchestra for a Picnic with the Pops. These outdoor concerts
are held on the grounds of the Chemical Abstracts office park. The lawn
itself is part of the exquisite attraction of the evening. It's green,
lush and summertime perfect.
I called
my best friends-Randi and Bill, both devoted Don McLean fans-and invited
them to join me for an evening in the open air to hear the songs sung
by the man we've loved for years. Randi and I planned the menu. I offered
to make a roasted chicken, seasoned within an inch of its life, as wonderful
cold as it is served hot, with carrots and gravy. Randi said they'd
bring everything else: wine, salad, chocolates, plates, forks, chairs
and a filled cooler for the whole outdoor concert routine. Randi knew
what she was doing down to the Handiwipes.
Come
Saturday night, the cooked chicken and I were ready and waiting at 6
pm. My dates arrived and we departed, effortlessly finding our way to
the concert grounds. We parked and began the task of unloading the car-the
blankets, the chairs, my chicken and the cooler on wheels.
A cooler
on wheels? Back when I was picnicking with mom-friends and little ones,
we put the coolers in the strollers and carried the babies, who generally
weighed less than the coolers. It'd been at least 10 years since I'd
been to an outdoor concert. Until Randi mentioned a "menu,"
I assumed we'd pick up a bucket of chicken and a six-pack.
With
my mouth hanging open, I studied the throngs of outdoor music lovers
trudging up to the lawn area I saw people with real dishware. The evening
meals laid out were civilized and elegant with gourmet foods, expensive
wines and citronella candles on tables. How had these folks known to
bring in tables, chairs, umbrellas and, for goodness sakes, cloth napkins?
We settled
down in a great location. Our blanket was smoothed out. We looked good.
We began to serve ourselves dinner. The weather was stellar, the breeze
light and the company enthralling. Randi and Bill took wonderful care
of me, their single friend. Though I was dateless on this Saturday night,
I shared the evening with a lawn full of folk-music lovers. It felt
good to fit in.
The sun
began to set around 9 pm, leaving an opening for a full moon. I looked
up to the heavens with recognition that this would be a night full of
perks. I was ready to acknowledge each one sent my way.
The mass
of music aficionados from my generation, spread out on blankets or relaxing
in designer lawn chairs that came in tote bags, made a scenic, sprawling
landscape. I saw candles on coolers. I saw sparklers spewing their high
voltage fizz in the dusky darkness. Across the lawn, dinners were finished,
but wine was still being poured.
Everyone
sat back while John Sebastian, the opening act, told stories of old
blues musicians and jug bands. He played his hits, such as "Welcome
Back," and explained where his 1960s group the Lovin' Spoonful
got its name. People sang along, oblivious that they had collectively
forgotten all the words. It didn't matter. We are children of the '60s.
We know that if you recall anything about the decade, well, then you
weren't really there. His set was too brief He was charming and gracious
as he left the stage.
Don McLean arrived with the concertmaster. Violins were poised and the
conductor bowed from his stand. Tap, tap, tap and the musicians began
playing song after song, one memorable melody after another. I looked
out among the dreamy faces. It appeared to me that so many people were
thrilled to have a place to go, to enjoy the music of their younger,
wilder days. Sure, we have younger, wilder kids of our own, and, like
our children, we define our generation by our music. We'd come to relax
and celebrate good songs from a prolific singer/songwriter who was out
there once more, offering us a connection to our past. He wrote the
songs we sang at college coffeehouses. He gave us tunes we would spend
hours learning on guitars instead of doing term papers. Or was that
just me?
On this night, another summer day was coming to an end. Was it just
the wine and beer after a long day of golf and yardwork, or did everyone
appear peaceful and calm solely from this beautiful night of music?
When
McLean broke into his classic "American Pie," the crowd rose.
Elderly women in seasonal polyester were standing and swaying to the
music with their arms flowing above their heads. Men who could pass
as my CPA were clapping, awkwardly, but with great fervor-singing, too.
I saw a couple in their 60s lying on their blanket, making out. What
a night this was. Full moon, full hearts.
I listened
to the dynamic string section and closed my eyes as the timpani and
horn sections rocked. But I stood still as the sad, yet lyrical oboe
section on "Starry, Starry Night" brought me to tears. McLean's
voice was as sweet and sincere as it was 30 years ago when he first
sang of Vincent van Gogh. The poetry spoke of pained creativity and
of people not appreciating the gifts of an artist's individual expression.
The last line of the song goes, "They're not listening still, perhaps
they never will." Don McLean, I have news for you. That night,
I went on a date with 4,000 people who were listening still. After 30
years, you can bet we always will.
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