To A Wild Rose
I'm a preacher's daughter and an opera major currently living a freaky life as a fringe theater/ performance-art junkie in beautiful Uptown Minneapolis. When one of my tongue-ringed, tattooed, and just plain daft cohorts (or sometimes just a friend of my father's) gets engaged I get the "Will you come sing?" call. I'm usually happy to do it. People never know what they want to hear (of course), and invariably say "Whatever you think would be good, do that." I've sung everything from "I Wanna be Sedated" to "Widmung "—and what I've noticed is that the minute the focus goes from the ring in one's tongue to the ring on one's left hand all reason and good taste goes out the window. Lain on my lap—equally—is the puzzlement of the Presbyterians and the waffling of the wiccan. I usually say, give me a week or two to mull over this and I'll give you a few choices, but you know what I'd play were it my wedding: I'd play, for a processional, "To A Wild Rose." Yes that's right—the McDowell. That tremor you just felt was caused by the combined force of 100,000 piano teachers crying out in horror and then suddenly being silenced by countless former 5-year-olds screaming "I CAN PLAY THAT ONE!" I don't care, I love the damned piece. It's simple, soothing, sweet, and contagious—just as a love worth enduring a wedding should be. I would also use "Du bist die Ruh," and if I were drunk (and I'd probably have to be), Merle Haggard's "My Own Kind of Hat." No one has ever taken either of these suggestions; they seem to be working under the assumption that I someday will. If you know anyone with the sheet music to the Princess Bride theme, have them call me . . . will you? Sarah Sawyer |
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