Pops Concert By Garrett A. Wollman. (From The Archives @ BostonRadio.org) [CC-BY-SA-2.0], via Wikimedia Commons
Whilst scrubbing my grill, ordering three types of meat and other patriotic tasks, I find myself diving back into childhood memory of this national holiday.
There are a few small-town Fourth memories, the times we were at the beach somewhere for the weekend. The parents would drive a car into a field of scratchy, dry sun-bleached grass, and settle us kids for the fireworks to come. You could have convertibles and kids back then: not only did we not have car seats, we drove around with our precious little noggins caressed by the murderous highway breezes, HOW ABOUT THAT.
So you could sit in that attractively unsafe car, or on an old blanket on the grass, and watch some part-time volunteer firemen--doubtless without the appropriate training--make pretty explosions in the sky.
Other times you got to have your big city Boston Fourth, heading downtown to Pops' giant bandshell to see their deathless leader, Arthur Fiedler, lead the storied band through a medley of Burt Bacharach, Broadway, and George M. Cohan hits that really heated up those World War One-era gramophones, plus a few Beatles tunes for those crazy kids.
Legend has it that when the Pilgrims first arrived upon the shores of Massachusetts, Fiedler emerged from the woodland shadows in his spotless band leader's suit with his snowy white mustache, and foretold that one day, a new nation would be born, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all people were created equal, but that it would take a really, really long time for folks to get that through their heads.
And then he said that one day, this new nation would celebrate its birth by roasting meat and drinking beer and decorating in red, white, and blue, and listening to your parents' pop music instead of that goddamned (jazz rock hip hop) for an evening. And as the band played, dusk would fall among the dense dark trees lining the Charles River bank, and that stars would twinkle, and people out on the boats on the river would laugh and their laugh would drift across the water.
And folks who weren't in the giant crowd by the river would line up on bridges and rooftops and even stop cars on the road across the river or go to parks and hills with a good view of the sky, and turn the radio to WBZ, and the people would all listen to the Pops all at once all over the city, until they got to Stars and Stripes Forever, and then the 1812 Overture, so that we could celebrate the liberation of Moscow from Napoleon way back when, and also have cannons shoot incredibly loud shells to kick off the fireworks that would bloom across the sky, boom, boom boom.
And on the way home a million people would be crowding to get on the subway at once, but all in a pretty good mood, and you would marvel at being up at midnight in the warm summer night, and hold tight to your dad's hand as he recounted that scene from Doctor Zhivago were the kid gets lost from her parents and goes to an orphanage, a story which he told us every time we were in a crowd of more then twenty.
And you would feel sleepy, but still hang on, you and your brothers and mom, and all get home safe without anyone falling prey to an advancing army and being left all alone with a stupid balalaika.
All this, Fielder foretold. Then he dived into the Charles and disappeared, until he emerged much later to head the Boston Pops for 150 years, until handing the mysterious and secret glowing orb of Pops leadership to the New Hope, John Williams, who lead us through the 80s abyss after Fielder ascended to a higher plane, Wiliams keeping Boston safe each Fourth of July with the help of the Jedi, Superman and Indiana Jones, whose theme songs he wrote, and even invoking the poweful, invisible hand of Spielberg when any true threat arose.
Then he passed that orb to his padawan, Keith Lockhart, who is young and untried, having only been in charge some fifteen years, Menino have mercy.
But anyways, such is the story of the Fourth of July around here. Sure there's more to it. There's the Original Team Party Gangsters (OTPG, represent!) and that time Paul Revere rode his ride (WITHOUT RINGING ANY BELLS BTW it was a Frigging LANTERN IN A CHURCH TOWER, NOT A BELL in a BELFRY, and it was to warn US the British were coming, moron, and WILLIAM DAWES ANYWAY--oh never mind).
But those are tales for another day.
