Over the Rainbow, Right Here
Are distant dreams closer than we think?
If you missed last week’s Note by Note—and its defense of recitals—you can find that here.
I’ve now been the Executive Director for precisely one weekend of recitals (three performances in total). I’m hardly an expert, but I definitely noticed some things.
Bach is terrific for any age (shocker, I know). Shinichi Suzuki definitely knew what he was doing with early student education. Randall Faber, too (for my childhood piano students, if you know you know). Our faculty at Pakachoag? As good as I’ve been around. We also have a community of families, friends, loved ones, and supporters who come out to root for their people onstage.
But one moment absolutely grabbed me.
During Friday’s recital, a young student sang Harold Arlen’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. Her mother, who was maybe ten feet away, had her phone in her hand, recording and beaming with pride. She wasn’t just watching. She was witnessing.
I’m no longer embarrassed to admit that I’m a little—ok, maybe a lot—sappy. I was a little choked up while taking it all in.
Maybe it was the culmination of my first month. Maybe it was that timeless melody. Maybe it’s the text (worth a look here). I have daughters of my own; musical memories of them were definitely popping up.
And it wasn’t the only time this tune was played or sung over the weekend. It showed up several times.
It all makes me wonder: what is it about this particular song that calls to us? And music, in general?
Happy Little Bluebirds
Iam Tongi absolutely knocked it out of the park with his version.
It’s a loving nod to Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, the legendary Hawaiian singer who passed away far too young and whose cover has become iconic. Check him out. You’ll be better for it.
And who can compete with Ella? She would turn anything into gold.
But beneath every interpretation, there’s the same truth. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” is, at its heart, a song about longing. It puts names on some of the aches and yearning we all carry: for beauty, for peace, for love, for achievement, for something just out of reach. That list could be endless.
I’ll propose that much of that concept can be summed up in a phrase: we long for the ideal… the ideal version of ourselves, the ideal version of our relationships, the ideal version of our jobs, the ideal version of the world, etc. And if it’s this ideal we really seek, then we’re painfully aware of all of the ways we see and feel shortcomings, both in ourselves and others. It shows up in anger, fear, anxiety, malaise, etc. Another endless list.
But I also believe the opposite is true: we’re keenly aware of all the ways we catch glimpses of the ideal, even if we can’t—or don’t—put it into words. We know it when we experience it.
Yes. That. That’s the thing right there.
Most days, the ideal feels far off. Spend one minute on a Massachusetts roadway, and the rainbow starts to feel like a joke. And the news headlines? Give me a break.
But there are moments—small, medium, and big—that remind us that it’s worth the effort to pursue the ideal. Something breaks through.
I think that’s what got me in that moment with the young singer and her connection to her mother.
A Place Behind the Sun, a Step Beyond the Rain
In these recitals—and in this particular moment like the one I witnessed—it’s not the distance from the ideal we feel. It’s the nearness to it.
A student steps up, takes a breath, announces their piece, and performs. Their loved ones beam, even through the memory lapses and restarts. The rest of the audience, quietly rooting. None are perfect. Some are truly excellent.
I don’t think we’re witnessing longing in those moments. It feels more like an arrival. The vignettes signal something bigger—at least bigger than we are—and though we aren’t able to put perfect words to it, we know it’s there. The smiles, the tears, the hugs, the deep breaths… they all testify.
It’s easy to think of music, at least its serious pursuit, as routine: another Tuesday, another practice log, another repetition. But every so often, the lights go up. A family leans forward. A student finds their artistry.
And suddenly, the rainbow isn’t quite as far away anymore. It’s right there, in simple music shared with people who care.
Why, then, oh why can’t I?
There were lots of magical moments this past weekend at Pakachoag… lots of smiles, some laughter, plenty of proud folks, some relieved faces, and a few happy tears.
But best part of it all? It was hopeful.
Congratulations to a fine group of people for a fine weekend of performances. This goes to everyone involved: students, faculty, parents, loved ones, supporters. It truly takes a village. Thank you for reminding why we do this—why we tackle, head-on, this thing called music.
Note by note,
Nick