From the ridiculous to the musically sublime

Indeed, it’s ridiculous in this day and age it’s necessary to identify, isolate, expose and repudiate Marxism rampant in the pages of this newspaper and, sadly, elsewhere.

For this week, however, I’ll give it a rest in order to focus on the other end of the spectrum, which, labeled the “sublime” by Longinus in the first century A.D., is farmore edifying to the noble human condition. Well … at least attributed to some guy collectively known as Longinus, but that’s a story for another time.

According to Longinus, to be considered sublime, art requires “great thoughts, strong emotions, certain figures of thought and speech, noble diction, and dignified word arrangement.” For the most part, he was referring to poetry (the portion of his essay on oratory was lost to the ages), but I would argue the sublime is no less a descriptor for some of the music upon which I cut my teeth many decades ago.

A recent spate of birthdays and anniversaries coincided to prompt reflection on some of my musical heroes.

I’ll begin with the lastmember to join my musical pantheon, although he would be the oldest according to age

(but only because I missed Nat King Cole’s 101st birthday last March). Thatman is John Coltrane, whose birthday is Sept.

23. Had he lived, he would be

94.

The jazz giant revolutionized the saxophone for many reasons, including as a solo artist and collaborator with other such luminaries as Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk, but a Norwegian exchange student hepped me to “A Love Supreme” back in college and, as they say, it’s been in steady rotation ever since.

It’s hard to believe Ray Charles departed this Earth 16 years ago. The legend and first member of my musical Mt. Rushmore would’ve been 90 on the birthday he shares with Coltrane. From themoment I first heard “Hit the Road Jack” on the tinny Amradio in my parents’ car in the early 1960s, I was a devotee.

From then on, I’d implore my parents to allowme to stay up well past my bedtime whenever Charles was slated to appear on one of the many television variety shows. Perhaps the greatest bonding moment with my father was enjoying Charles’ Fourth of July television performance of “America the Beautiful.” I can’t be certain, but I think I detected the hint of a tear in my father’s eye. Believe it or not, no sooner had I typed the last sentence and the song popped up on my Spotify rotation. Call it kismet or synchronicity, or call it the supernatural sublime.

Although our house was full of vinyl records throughout the 1960s and 1970s, the first 45 rpm record I could actually claim sole possession was Brook Benton’s “Rainy Night in Georgia.” What would have been Benton’s 89th birthday was this past Saturday.

I loved that record, and its B-side, “Boll Weevil.” Although I don’t remember many of the details, I recall bringing the record home from the Shepherd Harvest Festival. I had won it with another 45, which, if memory serves, was Buzz Clifford’s “Baby Sittin’ Boogie.”

Clifford wouldn’t make my list, but, incidentally, he would’ve celebrated his 79th birthday on Oct. 8 (I looked it up), which is the day before the 80th celebration this year of John Lennon’s birth. What else can be written about Lennon that isn’t maudlin and clichéd?

Since I’ve gone on record as despising the lyrics of “Imagine,” I’ll confess Lennon gave the song a beautifulmelody and heartfelt vocal rendering, among his best performances of a career chock-a-block with stellar examples. As the cynical, sarcastic Beatle, however, Lennon provided the perfect balance to his bandmates, which elevated them above merely the world’s greatest pop band into the sublime.