Leroy Anderson
A trumpeter's lullaby

A son has become a dream locked in a drawer that I haven't been able to pry open yet. I'm trying various picks that for now don't seem effective. I even thought I might not be skilled as a lockpicker, yet I would have never imagined that an ordinary drawer could become a fortress so difficult to breach. And to think that in my youth I was so naive that I would throw away the right keys…

A trumpeter’s lullaby is a lullaby. Perhaps it is THE lullaby. Far from the intimidating nursery rhymes that could hand you over to the night’s executioners. If everything went well, the witch was the most enticing danger, but if Morpheus had carelessly lingered at the tavern, the wolf or the bogeyman would take over. This was when honey soothed the coughs.

There isn't a soothing voice accompanying the melody, quite the contrary. There is even an interlude for winds and orchestra that takes the scene while you see him swinging smiling on a red rocking horse. Call me a demagogue, nostalgic, an idiot, but I don't even want to imagine seeing him stupefied in front of an artificial bulb projecting addictive molded clay images. Creating an unnatural dependency.

Who would have imagined that a lullaby would be played by an instrument as invasive as the trumpet. Usually, one thinks of music boxes generated by the retractable tail of a ladybug or the lightness of some well-plucked strings. In this case, they provide excellent company.

She reigns supremely. And not everyone can handle her properly. The most common version is that performed by Roger Voisin with the Boston Pops Orchestra in the background. Sharp, perhaps unsuitable. Technically impeccable but, for me, not the best. Al Hirt offers a more fitting version. The most beautiful, perhaps. The orchestra is the same, and you can tell. His trumpet is comparable to a caress, a few sweet strokes on the cheeks.

However, my favorite is another. On an emotional level, it’s the most effective. Imagine the fragility of a child protected by the powerful hands of a giant of color. Perhaps the kindest of the "bogeymen" that scared us at dusk. Even a feather would feel safe between his big lips. Especially if they hold the still invasive trumpet. He is Wynton Marsalis, and the London Promenade Orchestra acts as a shadow.

The reprise at the end of the orchestral interlude (01:46) and the peak of strings (02:38) help the heart to produce at least a drop of emotion. Don't worry about shedding tears if it happens. Play it while watching the bees circle around trying in vain to catch them.

If I manage to imitate you, I'll let you know. And we'll listen to it together.