At another new seniors’ home concert venue in Aurora, Ontario, I was loading my gear in extra-early—typical of me when visiting for the first time, to build trust with management and rapport with the residents. A stern man named Walter cast austere advice before I even took the stage: “Don’t blow the roof off!”
I enjoy the process of winning over an audience. I enter the room to dubious questions like “Has he been here before?”, but the uncertainty melts away during my opening numbers (usually).
It’s a simple formula: play the music my audiences want to hear in a way they want to hear it. Not too loud; recognizable; and clean.
One of the first songs a senior requested of me remains meaningful, and evidently meaningful to Walter too, because he asked for it that evening: “Green, Green Grass of Home.”
Written by “Curly” Putman Jr. and first recorded by singer Johnny Darrell in 1965, it was made popular by Porter Wagoner that same year. Tom Jones had a worldwide hit with it in 1966.
Happy to oblige, I sang Walter’s request, then shared the tale of how I came to learn that song.
An older couple were in my audience one summer in a coffee hut in Sauble Beach, Ontario, where I was performing my first of consecutive dates. Chatting between songs, they asked if I knew “Green, Green Grass of Home.” I didn’t, but learning they were cottaging in the area, I promised to learn it and play it for them the next day. They enthusiastically agreed, “See you tomorrow!”
Straight to work that evening, I researched the song, printed the words, listened repeatedly, practiced and internalized it as best I could, returning the next day with their request triumphantly prepared (somewhat).
They never showed up.
But that early song request from a senior planted a fertile seed, sprouting understanding about the potential of concerts for seniors, and setting me on a path that has taken me across Canada.
Originally, the song concludes with a sad recitation about a doomed prisoner awaiting execution. Taking artistic liberty, I modify the monologue into a brighter personalized message, like:
“And I awake…and look at my audience around me. You know what I see?” (Someone usually yells, “Four grey walls!”) But I interject a joke-de-jour about something in the room, like, “…besides birthday cake and peach juice?”
Continuing, “I’ll tell you what I see. I see nothing but beautiful faces looking back at me. I’m ever-so-grateful to be singing these great songs for fine folks everywhere I go, songs like the ‘Green, Green Grass of Home’…”
It gets ’em every time.
As I was leaving with my trolley of gear, Walter extended his hand in thanks. Our parting words were all the more sincere from my singing his request.
And not blowing the roof off.
Whenever I sing that song, I flash back to that coffee hut on the beach many summers ago, grateful for the song request that set me on this path.
(PS, Lakeland area friends: this path is charting a course to you!)
