by Tim Rayborn
Brian Jones (February 28, 1942–July 3, 1969): a founder and guitarist of the Rolling Stones. He drowned in a swimming pool, but drugs and alcohol probably played a role. Rumors persist that he was murdered, as it was said that various items were stolen from his home.
Jimi Hendrix (November 27, 1942–September 18, 1970): a pioneering rock guitarist who influenced a generation after him and is still regarded as one of the most important guitarists ever. He overdosed on sleeping pills and choked on his own vomit.
Janis Joplin (January 19, 1943–October 4, 1970): a popular solo singer-songwriter and a major star at the first Woodstock Festival. She died of a heroin overdose, possibly from a variety that was more potent than normal.
Jim Morrison (December 8, 1943–July 3, 1971): lead singer of the Doors. Officially he died of heart failure, but it may well have been a heroin overdose complicated by asthma. Many controversies linger over the exact nature of his death, with some claiming that he faked the whole thing. His grave in Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery is still a site of pilgrimage for his fans.
Ronald “Pigpen” McKernan (September 8, 1945–March 8, 1973): a founding member of the Grateful Dead, he suffered from congenital biliary cirrhosis, an autoimmune disease of the liver. He died of a gastrointestinal hemorrhage.
Kurt Cobain (February 20, 1967–ca. April 5, 1994): the lead singer for the platinum-selling Seattle-based grunge band Nirvana, he shot himself in the head with a shotgun, though there have been a number of conspiracy theories stating that he was murdered. There were also claims that Cobain had expressed interest in joining the 27 Club. His death made the idea of the club better known in the popular imagination.
Amy Winehouse (September 14, 1983–July 23, 2011): the very popular jazz and R&B vocalist who won five Grammy awards in a single ceremony. She struggled with substance abuse and mental issues, as well as run-ins with the law, and was found dead by her bodyguard. Alcohol poisoning was determined to be the cause of death.
Superstitions about the ninth symphony
One of the stranger fears appearing in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was a belief held by some prominent composers, among others, that a composer could only write nine symphonies. If he tried to write more, he would die soon after completing his ninth. Gustav Mahler (so said his wife, Alma) and Arnold Schoenberg both believed this. This superstition seems to have stemmed from the fact that Beethoven wrote only nine symphonies, as did Schubert (though the numbering of them during Mahler’s time was different) and Bruckner, who perhaps intentionally composed his ninth symphony in D minor, the same key as his beloved Beethoven’s ninth. The Czech composer Antonín Dvořák stopped writing symphonies after his famous New World Symphony. It was his ninth, though he considered it to be his eighth, since the score for his first symphony was lost and not rediscovered until after his death. Also, his ninth was originally numbered and published as his fifth, since three other early symphonies were not published in his lifetime. Got that?
The story goes that Mahler was so convinced of some kind of nine-symphony curse that he titled what would have been his ninth symphony Das Lied von der Erde (“The Song of the Earth”), in the belief that he could beat the system by not assigning it a number. Then he went ahead and composed a “ninth” symphony. Confident that he had cheated death, he began work on a tenth, but he died before he could complete it. However, scholars have recently questioned whether Mahler believed in any curse at all, suggesting that his widow may have invented the whole story.
In any case, Arnold Schoenberg—whose obsession with the number thirteen we will explore later in this chapter—wrote about this belief, essentially saying that writing a ninth symphony was the limit. The universe or some higher power did not yet permit a composer to go beyond nine symphonies, perhaps because humanity had not yet evolved enough.
This seems like irrational nonsense. You may be thinking that it makes for a good story and an interesting coincidence, but—putting on your scholarly hat—look at Mozart, who wrote over forty symphonies, with many others attributed to him, and Haydn, whose symphonies number over a hundred. This is true, but they lived before Beethoven, and some would declare that the curse began with him. This is probably due to the belief that Beethoven was the greatest symphonic composer of all, so he may be expected to have set the limits.
Okay, you say, we’re still not buying any of it. Think of modern composers like Dmitri Shostakovich (fifteen symphonies), Heitor Villa-Lobos and Darius Milhaud (twelve symphonies each), and Alan Hovhaness (at least sixty-seven, forty-three of which were written after the age of sixty!). There, that proves it.
Yes, it does prove something. But there were other composers who did indeed die after completing their ninth, such as Alfred Schnittke. Composer William C. White said of Schnittke’s ninth, “I think this is music of someone who is already dead…. [it] sounds like the exploratory wanderings of a ghost during his first encounter with a new, otherworldly universe.”
Schnittke’s fellow Russian Alexander Glazunov technically never completed his ninth and lived for another twenty-six years (dying in 1936), presumably escaping his fate.
On the other hand, Ralph Vaughan Williams composed his ninth symphony at the age of eighty-five and died about six months later. This is not too surprising, given his advanced age. However, he died in the early hours of the morning of August 26, the very day that he was supposed to attend a recording session for his ninth symphony. It may just be a coincidence, but then again …
The yellow clarinet
Theatrical lore abounds with unlucky colors, but these are less common in music. There is one curious exception: a yellow clarinet must not be allowed in the orchestra pit if the music is for a play. If such an instrument is present, things will invariably go wrong for the orchestra and the actors. The origin of this belief is obscure, but yellow is often considered an unlucky color in the theater.
Certain shades of yellow were once thought to attract evil spirits. Further, in medieval times yellow and green were often associated with the devil in morality plays, an early form of drama intended to instruct the illiterate masses by scaring the hell out of them. These open-air plays were frequently accompanied by music, a practice that was an early precursor to bands and orchestras accompanying plays in more recent times.
The clarinet itself is a much later invention (eighteenth century), but somewhere along the line the idea of using a yellow one was accepted as a bad omen. Why the clarinet? Why not a violin, or a xylophone, or a nose flute? Well, the color was apparently a popular one for the instrument in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and this probably collided with existing theatrical superstitions about yellow, so it was banned from theater orchestras. No one knows just what might happen if such a clarinet is used during a play, but it’s probably best not to tempt fate.
Unlucky Friday—or at least a noisy one
Everyone knows about the fear of Friday the 13th, the origin of which is often attributed to the story of Jesus being crucified on a Friday (confusingly called “Good Friday”) and having been betrayed by Judas, the thirteenth member of the group. At least that’s one theory. Fridays in general have gotten a bad rap ever since, despite being the most longed-for day of the typical work week. One old English folk song even warned, “Never be born on a Friday, choose some other day if you can.” Unfortunately, the tune offered no advice on how to go about this.
There is an odd nineteenth-century superstition that says if a man goes courting his lady on a Friday and gets found out by the townspeople, he will suffer a strange fate indeed: he will be followed home by a group of musicians making all kinds of noises on pan lids with tongs, pokers, and other implements—kind of a Victorian version of Stomp.
This warning to young would-be Romeos goes beyond the ringing ears and headache that may result from the cacophony made by rowdy pan-bangers. It’s trying to call attention to the lusty young lad and reveal that he is up to no good, a kind of public shaming. Indeed,
the historical basis for this odd practice is easy to locate. There was a medieval French tradition called charivari that spread to other countries and lasted well beyond the Middle Ages. It involved people going out into the streets wearing grotesque masks and making loud, obnoxious music on rustic instruments, often in connection to newlyweds or an upcoming wedding. The noise was made to express disapproval of certain types of marriages—like those who were remarrying or had “inappropriate” spouses—as well as of adultery, unwed mothers, wife beaters, and a host of other offenses. It was a way of expressing community disapproval and even belittling or humiliating anyone who deviated from society’s norms.
A crowd of these revelers makes an appearance in the Roman de Fauvel, as we saw earlier, but rather than shaming Fauvel on his wedding day, their purpose is to cheer him on and encourage him to do the deed. Since Fauvel and his followers were an inversion of all things good and right, it makes sense that these noisemakers were doing the opposite of what they were supposed to do. The manuscript represents them in grotesque costumes and masks, flashing their butts and singing their dirty little ditties. Imagine what the Victorians would have thought!
Morning singing brings tears
“If you sing before seven, you will cry before eleven.” So goes the old saying, an odd warning indeed. Why, if you were happy or inspired enough to sing at such an early hour, would you regret it before noon? Does that mean that monks who sang those early services were perpetually unhappy? Maybe.
There are a few possible origins for this idea. The most likely harkens back to the old Protestant work ethic—ah, so forget about the monks—that basically states that you have to earn your happiness each day. Singing before you’ve earned the right to do so is most assuredly a way to bring bad luck on yourself.
I have my own theory about this: imagine some eighteenth-century opera tenor in Venice, full of himself and riding on a wave of popularity, bounding out of bed early one morning to launch, full-voiced, into his showcase aria. The upstairs neighbor isn’t quite so fond of his joyous expressions of virtuosity and sends down one of his servants to give said male diva a smacking with a cane or just a good old fist. Chastened and black-eyed, the tenor learns the hard way that not everyone appreciates genius.
Actually, the idea that any musician would be up at 7:00 a.m. is universally laughable. A musician who is up then probably never went to bed the night before, or hasn’t yet realized that the alcoholic haze from the previous evening’s festivities hasn’t yet worn off, and the hangover from hell will descend on his unsuspecting head by 11:00, bringing tears—hence the proverb.
Circus band superstitions
There weren’t too many touring orchestras in the United States in the nineteenth century. The expense, hassle, and time it would take (via slow trains) rendered the whole thing mostly impractical. If you lived in some little town in the middle of nowhere, your best chance of hearing live music played well would come from a traveling circus. These productions brought wind bands with them for all of their musical needs. If people heard European classical music at all, it wasn’t so much from string orchestras but from these smaller groups who introduced the works of contemporary nineteenth-century composers to American audiences.
Consisting mainly of brass and percussion (and perhaps a woodwind or two), these groups were very versatile. They could provide music for the big top circus, a local theatrical production, a town function, a wedding—you name it. They were jacks-of-all-trades, and if not the most skilled, they were certainly spirited. John Philip Sousa had a famous touring circus band, as did circuses like the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey.
As traveling bands, they endured a lot of hardships and saw many things. It was only natural that over time, some superstitions would arise about how to make things go more smoothly. George Brinton Beal, an American lecturer, writer, and critic, wrote about two songs that acquired superstitious associations in his 1938 book Through the Back Door of the Circus with George Brinton Beal.
It was believed that playing a piece called “Suppe’s Light Cavalry March” on the circus lot invited disaster, even death. It is rumored that soon after the song was played in Oklahoma, there was a train wreck that killed sixteen people. Another time its performance resulted in a fierce wind that killed thirty-eight people unlucky enough to be in its path. A third tragedy ensued when, immediately after playing the piece, one musician dropped dead on the spot—so, no more march. It was apparently not even wise to carry around the sheet music for this tune. Beal never specified exactly when these incidents were supposed to have occurred, but he stressed that they were taken very seriously: “You may not believe this but most circus folks do, at least those who know the facts.”
A second song, entitled “Home Sweet Home,” could never be played except during the last concert of the season. If it were played sooner, it would mean the closing of the show and probably the end of the tour.
These beliefs must have had some basis in a story or urban legend that got repeated and passed around enough for them to take hold. Maybe something bad really did happen once, and that was enough to inspire these warnings. In any case, circus bands were integral to the spread of music in those frontier days, and not even irrational fears could stop them.
Sexist superstition at the first American musical
It’s always been difficult to be a woman in the Old Boys’ Club of the music world (or anywhere, for that matter), and having some stupid superstitions attached to your gender doesn’t help matters. This one is particularly odious:
In the year 1866, the first American musical was about to premiere in New York at a venue called Niblo’s Garden. The show was called The Black Crook. It was over five hours long—good lord, what were they thinking?! It wasn’t even a real effort to create a new American musical art form, but rather just a strange mixture of elements including music, dance, and a Faustian story about an evil German noble, Count Wolfenstein (great name!), who wants to marry a village woman against her wishes. His attempts to have her fiancé sacrificed to the devil fail, and true love wins the day. The whole thing was pieced together like Frankenstein’s monster in an attempt to draw a crowd and make some money. It was a bit of a mess, but they had to start somewhere; it included the all-important element of prototype showgirls, which are still a mainstay in musicals today, for better or worse. Mark Twain wrote favorably about the production and its spectacular dazzle.
On opening night, the manager, William Wheatley, stood by the doors as the crowds waited to enter the theater. Apparently, people were intrigued enough to come and see the show. Noticing that the first customer in line was a woman, he emphatically refused to let her be the first one into the building, insisting that it would ruin any chance of success the show might have. She was probably shocked and more than a little offended, but Wheatley stood firm and a man entered first. Was this just a dumb superstition residing in the mind of a Victorian-era misogynist? Most likely.
For the record, the show ran for 474 performances and was a massive hit. Imitators sprang up almost immediately, and the American musical was born. Wheatley was triumphant and smug, and even claimed later that while he was not superstitious, the show’s success was due in part to his refusal to let a woman be the first patron into the theater. What would have happened to the show had he not been such an insistent jerk? Would the American musical have taken off anyway? I’d say it’s very likely.
Schoenberg and the number thirteen
Arnold Schoenberg, the inventor of the twelve-tone system and champion of all things numerical in music, was also obsessed with numbers and numerology in the non-musical parts of his life. He had a morbid fear of the number thirteen, known in psychological lingo as triskaidekaphobia. For instance, he called his opera Moses und Aron—changing the spelling from the more traditional “Aaron” because it made his title twelve letters rather than thirteen. Why he had such an extreme fear is not known, but having been born on September 13, he saw this number as a
bad omen, hanging like a dark cloud over his whole life. For him, it symbolized the forces of death and destruction. He worked hard to ensure that it could not dominate him by avoiding the number as much as possible.
He believed that if he stopped work on a composition for any amount of time, whether due to writer’s block or any other reason, he would return to find that the measure where he had left off was most often a multiple of thirteen. To him, this pattern proved that the number was working against him. In order to avoid giving in, he would sometimes number his measures as 12, then 12A, then 14. He would defend his obsession by saying that it was not superstition, but rather belief. It was central to his outlook, and so he saw nothing silly about it.
He conducted his whole life according to various rituals and numerological practices that he thought would bring him good luck and help him to avoid bad luck. When naming his children from his second marriage, for example, he chose the names Ronald and Roland, both anagrams of his own name. When he discovered that “Roland” contained some unlucky numerological potentialities, he changed it to Lawrence Adam so as not to inadvertently curse him with an unlucky name. Whenever possible he also avoided addresses with the number thirteen, as well as the thirteenth floor of buildings.
He was so fearful of the power of thirteen that he felt certain he would die in a year when his age was a multiple of the number. He was terrified of his sixty-fifth birthday, for example. He asked astrologer and fellow composer Dane Rudhyar to cast his horoscope for that fateful year. Rudhyar informed him that while it was a time of danger, it wouldn’t necessarily kill him. He was right; Schoenberg escaped and with great relief lived to celebrate his sixty-sixth birthday. He wouldn’t have to worry about it again until he was seventy-eight, if he survived that long.
