May 4, 2021
Northern Mockingbird
Photographed at DeSoto State Park, Florida
It was 1998 and Mrs. Starlight and I had just moved to California. Her recent job transfer to Santa Monica was allowing me to chase the show biz bug in La La Land, and we were renting an apartment just off Princeton Street. Years spent living in Portland, Oregon had inured us to sounds of the city, but the level of hustle and bustle in Southern California was world-class. I found myself growing irritable and impatient as my peaceful slumber was kept at bay for several consecutive nights by the sound of some moron’s car alarm blaring through the deep, dark night. You remember car alarms? In case you’ve forgotten, or want to aurally self-flagellate, here’s what they sound like:
Frazzled and at my wits’ end, I finally called 9-1-1 around 3 a.m., thinking, “why am I the only one taking the initiative here? What’s with this neighborhood?” The 9-1-1 operator kindly suggested my needs would be better protected and served by the police non-emergency line. Frustrated, I hung up, dialed an unmemorable eleven digit number that I had to jot down on the bedside notepad, and began explaining to a very patient man that “some idiot’s car alarm has been going off for hours. It sounds like it’s literally outside my window. Listen.”
“I believe that’s a bird, sir,” he offered.
“Excuse me? That’s not a bird. I’m not stupid! I think I know what a car alarm sounds like and what a bird sounds like! You are no help! Do not condescend or tell me to ‘have a good night!’ Do your job! Send the police!!!”
This was my introduction to the mockingbird.
The most ubiquitous bird, the one bird I can count on seeing all day, every day here in Willowbank is the ever-active and industrious Northern Mockingbird. Their drab, gray bodies come alive each time they take flight. Whenever one explodes from the ground or a nearby perch, the burst of white in their wings and tail feathers reminds me of the flash of a Polaroid camera. I’ve begun to think of the mockingbird as a kindred spirit, for I too am an industrious soul who has made a career out of singing other people’s songs, ever endeavoring to sound as much like the original artist as possible.
Mockingbirds imitate all manner of birds and otherwise. Just yesterday one screeched at me like a squirrel from an oak tree. It was more than a bit reminiscent of my Axl Rose impression. And yes, they imitated car alarms way back in the days of landlines, AOL dial-up, and The Thomas Guide. Should you care to search, you’ll find numerous examples on YouTube. Both male and female mockingbirds sing, but exhibiting a vast repertoire of songs is how males attract a mate. And, it’s how they keep them. Ornithologists contend the male mockingbird must continually learn new songs to retain the favor of his special lady. Yes, little bird, we have very much in common.
There is an insidious bias among many musicians and fans against artists who sing another artist’s songs. Especially loathed are tribute shows and “cover bands”. This is, of course, totally understandable. I mean, is there anything worse than listening to the London Philharmonic? It’s like, “try writing some original music, people! How old is that song anyway, like 350 years? Philharmonic? Why don’t you just call yourselves what you are? A Beethoven Tribute Band!”
True, it may be more authentic for Neil Young to sing as if he’s screeching for help from the bowels of a strangulated alley cat in its death throes, but Lord, have mercy! “I’ve heard the Neil and the damage done…” Okay, Neil Young isn’t as bad as all that – I’ll concede he’s one step above listening to a car alarm. But there’s a much stronger case for the division of labor that resulted from Cole Porter writing, Nelson Riddle arranging, Count Basie’s band swinging, and Frank Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald singing. At least when Frank sings “I’ve got you under my skin,” he’s serenading his lady fair, not a hypodermic needle. The truth is, there’s room for all this music in our beautiful world. I merely reject the bias in favor of original music. (Besides, has there really been such a thing as an original blues song after 1952?)
Singing great songs I didn’t write is like cooking from a recipe I didn’t concoct. If I simply follow chef’s directions, use the best ingredients available, employ sound technique (pun intended), and maybe spice it up just a bit to suit my personal taste, we’ll all enjoy the meal I’ve created for us to share.
Here are just a few fun facts that help illustrate the benefits of a good tribute artist versus the “original” artist.
Tickets for Elton John at Moda Center: $625, plus parking. Tickets for a Tribute to Elton John at Tony Starlight Showroom: $65, includes dinner and parking!
Distance between you and Elton John at Moda Center: two football fields. Distance between you and Tony Starlight: two dinner tables!!
Average time between Elton John coming to your city: Six years, if at all, or ever again. Average time between Tony Starlight Shows (pandemic schedule allowing): one week!!!
My kindred spirit the mockingbird and I have still one more important trait in common. It’s best summed up by Harper Lee in her seminal novel To Kill a Mockingbird, which she asserts is a sin because, "they don't do one thing for us but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.” Now, I’ll admit to occasionally nesting in corncribs on warm, sunny summer days, but mostly, all I want to do is sing my heart out for you.
Afterword: My previous Rare Bird post was about a tufted titmouse singing at 10:30 p.m. Do you suppose it could actually have been a mockingbird? Like any great cover artist, it’s hard to tell the difference.