Give Us A Name—But Only One

The other day my husband, who’s in assisted living, told me about a quiz they had where they had to guess the artists who go by only one name.  The artists, mainly singers, were from the twenty-first century.  So out of twenty questions, they got four right.  I think that’s quite a good score.  I have no idea how many I would get.  I know there’s Drake.  And Coldplay, although I think Coldplay is a group.  So here’s a lame confession.  I think I really stopped listening to “contemporary” pop/rock/rap/whatever when the millennium came around.

So, yes, I know artists by their first names.  Ludwig.  I think he’s my favorite, as I’m not a subtle person.  Wolfie, or shall we say, Wolfgang.  Yes.  The operas, the symphonies, the mass.  And Samuel.  Barber of course. 

Single last names are easier to recognize, if one is being tested.  Rossini.  Would I dare call him Gioachino?  No.  Gilbert and Sullivan.  Yes, Sullivan’s first name is Arthur and he was much beloved of Queen Victoria.  But why did he eschew his best work just so he could be considered “serious.”  And where the hell is that lost chord anyway?

I often turn to Offenbach to pep me up, but I would never call him Jacques because my pronunciation probably wouldn’t be French enough.  Respighi, must look up his first name.  Ottorino?  No, not a first name an artist like that could go by.  Verdi?  Too many Giuseppes in the world to call him anything but Verdi.  Let’s not go through the H’s and the B’s, especially the B’s with all those Bachs.

Maybe I qualify for old-fogeydom.  I accept the designation.  I’ve tried listening to the music that’s coming out now.  It doesn’t do anything for me emotionally.  Shouldn’t art connect to one not only intellectually—actually, that’s totally unnecessary—but definitely emotionally?

Hard to believe perhaps but I’m a latecomer to the classics.  In fact, it was a college roommate my freshman year who introduced me to the “Messiah.”  I had never heard it before and I allegedly grew up in a cultured middle class home.  The first time I heard Beethoven’s 9th, my friend Ludwig’s, I cried it was so beautiful.  Of course I was familiar with Rossini’s Willian Tell’s overture because it was the theme of the Lone Ranger.  So I wasn’t a complete musical moron.

I grew up on the outskirts of New York City and was a great fan of acts like Mickey and Silvia, Buddy Holly, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Bo Diddley.  Moving on to college, there was Bob Dylan and other such folk.  And into my forties I followed what was on the radio, except, let us remember how many commercials there were between the one and half minute songs.  How grateful I was then for Bohemian Rhapsody and the Who’s Tommy. But my listening fell by the wayside, I’m sorry to say.  Too bad Apple Music wasn’t around then.  I might have stuck with the newer artists, one name or no.

Now, aside from classical music, I have reverted to the tried and true.  My playlist includes Bruce—Springsteen, Cydni—Lauper, Patty—Smith, Pat—Benatar, David—Bowie, Linda—Ronstadt, and, hate me if you will, Neil—Diamond.  Oh, and yeah, one names like Journey, Queen, the Ramones.

I could go on, but you get the point.  In my dotage, I’m stuck with the oldies, both in songs and people.  But I don’t mind.  When something’s good, it’s good forever.  Right, Ludwig?