I’ve heard the term “earworm” to describe an unwanted refrain that gets stuck somehow, somewhere in the middle brain, craftily sneaking past the guardians of sanity, occasionally arriving in full, chorus and verse, or, perhaps more maddeningly, perversely clanging in with shards of remembered lyrics. In my case, the issue is not that the tune is unwanted or incompletely delivered; I quite like the songs that start and  spend the day with me. The issue is that those around me are far less likely to be pleased when I allow lyrics originally recorded by a manic beaver to bubble out at the breakfast table. “Brusha, Brusha, Brusha … With the new Ipana … With the brand new flavor … It’s dandy for your teeth.” Actually, of course, the last word grows more profound as it is exaggerated in two syllables -”Teeee – Eeeeeth”. We may not share the same estimation of the tune, but let’s be clear in acknowledging that all too few songs include the term “dandy” as an expression of quiet superiority.

Well, I’ve just enjoyed a dandy weekend celebrating the continued good health of an acapella group a few friends and I pulled together almost 60 years ago. Reunions are tricky business for the most part, but when singers from across the decades return to our alma mater, much of the murkiness of revisiting the past is clarified by shared love of the music and of the remarkable physical experience of standing in shared sound. We sing in parts, and are tentative at the outset, not entirely sure that memory of each song’s dimensions will return as the other parts pile on. A gifted music director, a graduate who arranged some of the most impressive pieces we all sing, nudged us through exercises and scales, prodding us into voice with gentle humor. Before we had begun working on any of the songs we would perform last weekend, he coaxed us into moments in which Martin Buber would have delighted, moments in which I and Thou merge, in which I, we, become voice.

I stood in joy, tears welling, arms and legs resembling the flesh of freshly plucked fowl. There have been many moments in which I’ve been moved to tears by a book, or a film, or a poem, or a speech. I actually sniffle fairly frequently, to the amusement of those watching me yield to sentiment. This was different, not simply in its power but in its clarity. No artifice, no manipulation, no self-awareness, no purpose other than being, finally, set free.

We sang the old songs, of course, and there was great pleasure in performing them well. An audience enjoyed the performance, and the future of the group looks bright. I enjoyed singing with men returning for their 50th reunion and with a gaggle of rising juniors and seniors, determined to keep the tradition of acapella singing alive. I’ve got a commemorative hat featuring our logo, a bemused owl, and the phrase, “Since 1965”. The recording will go on line soon, and I’ll foist it on anyone who will listen. I organized a display of photographs of the group as it evolved over the decades, and presented the collection to the college’s archives. I suspect the box will sit unseen in the library’s basement, and the recording will reach a small audience of kind friends and family. Tempus fugit and, as a much older acapella group at Yale promised, “We’ll pass and be forgotten with the rest.”

I sit here now, slightly more completely human than the emotionally depleted pessimist who drove to Ohio while waiting for the world to fall apart. The world still has some lumps to take, but I’ve lived what Eliot promised. I am the music as long as the music lasts.