Lullaby of Birdland.
That’s if we ever get the birds to shut up.
“Have you ever heard two turtledoves bill and coo when they love?” George David Weiss
I’m surprised my wife brought it up, her not being a jazz lover — or even familiar with Birdland, from what I recall. Yet there she was at five in the morning, talking about New York’s famous jazz club like she’d been dreaming about it all night.
“I thought you hated jazz, honey,” I say to her. “You never let me play Charlie Parker or Dizzy Gillespie.”
“What in heaven’s name are you going on about?” she says. “I’m talking about those stupid birds. I said, you’d think this was bird land the way they’re carrying on out there.”
“Oh, I thought you meant the Birdland.”
“I’ve never even heard of Birdland. And I do hate Charlie Parker. I just hate those birds even more.”
“Why would I mean that? I’ve never even heard of Birdland. And I do hate Charlie Parker. I just hate those birds even more. Isn’t there a law against making noise at five in the morning?”
“It doesn’t apply to birds unfortunately, honey,” I say.
“Well, we need to do something,” she says, getting up, slamming the window shut. “I can’t stand it. All they do is sing the same thing over and over. Don’t they know any other songs?”
Getting back into bed, she puts a pillow over her face. I haven’t seen her like this since the kids behind us got a set of drums. They banged away for weeks until one neighbour complained.
Winona was that neighbour.
“Go make those stupid birds stop,” she’s saying to me now. “At least get them out of our yard.”
I come back inside defeated, pretty sure Winona will insist I get a shotgun and spray grapeshot all over the backyard.
I walk outside and give the usual threatening clap. The Morning Doves depart in a flurry, but the Jays and Robins barely stop. I come back inside defeated, pretty sure Winona will insist I get a shotgun and spray grapeshot all over the backyard.
A shotgun definitely would scare the crap out of them, but I don’t have a shotgun. We’ve never owned one. I think we had a water pistol once. I used it to put out flames in the barbecue.
I wasn’t even good at that.
Anyway, Winona’s back in bed with the pillow over her face. I walk around feeling like I’ve let Winona down. I’ve done everything to shame the birds. They, in turn, have ignored me.
I’m about to accept defeat when something occurs to me. Birds may not respect a human telling them to shut their pieholes, but what if it comes from a higher authority?
I go to my record collection, pulling out “Birds of the Amazon.” I put it on the turntable and drag the speakers to the bedroom window.
It’s like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie belting out Night in Tunisia at Birdland.
Winona — who hates things being moved around — lets out her usual squeal of disapproval. What comes next (when the record starts, of course) leaves our feathered friends outside completely in awe. The sonorous sounds that follow are the caracara, potoo and Screaming piha. It’s like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie belting out Night in Tunisia at Birdland.
Whether the Jays and Robins are gobsmacked — or wonder why I allow Brazilian birds in our house — they go silent.
Not only are they silent, they’re nowhere to be found. Perhaps the very richness of their southern cousins singing is too much for them. Or maybe they’ve decided to head to Brazil for singing lessons.
Whatever it is, our back yard becomes as tranquil as an Andalusian cave. This makes Winona very happy — if not a bit creeped out. She’s not used to no sounds. In fact, the more she thinks about it, the more creeped out she gets.
“I’m freaking here,” she says.
“Just relax, honey,” I say. “Go back to bed.”
“They’re back,” she squeals, “louder than ever.”
I return the speakers to the living room, expecting nothing more out of Winona for the time being. Unfortunately, minutes later, she’s standing before me, looking as livid as Dizzy blowing his trumpet.
“They’re back,” she squeals, “louder than ever.”
I go to the bedroom window. Sure enough, the birds are there in the trees, singing their brains out. It’s like they decided they weren’t bad singers afterall (just Canadian), and came to claim their northern roots.
“See what you’ve done?” Winona says. “You and your stupid Birds of the Amazon.”
“I thought I could shame them,” I say. “I didn’t expect this. It’s like they think they’re on American Idol or The View.”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t shame them,” she says.
“No, I guess I didn’t,” I reply.
Winona mopes, I pace the living room. Then I realize the answer may be Birdland itself. I pull the speakers back to the bedroom again, and let loose with Live at Birdland, one of the Parker’s and Gillespie’s greatest albums. I doubt any bird is going to compete with that. They’re probably cowering in the trees right now.
Before we know it, the police are outside.
Unfortunately, it’s still only five thirty in the morning. Before we know it, the police are outside. Two officers hurry up the steps like they’re making a drug bust. We’re still in our pajamas.
“We’ve had a complaint from your neighbours,” one of the officers says. “Loud music, possibly jazz?”
“I was trying to shame some birds,” I explain.
I even show them the album. Track seven is actually called “Ornithology.” Neither officer seems impressed or sympathetic.
“What have you got against birds?” the second officer asks.
I figure Winona might chime in, but she’s strangely silent.
“We’ve been having problems with their singing,” I say.
“Their singing?”
“It’s keeping my wife awake.”
“Well, you’re keeping the neighbours awake,” the first officer says. “We’re going to have to confiscate your stereo.”
“Is that necessary, officer?”
“I’m afraid so. We had to confiscate some kid’s drums around here before. The complainant insisted upon it.”
“What complainant?”
“Some slightly hysterical woman.”
She’s admitting to nothing, except that she exhausted and wants to go back to bed before one of her eyes starts sagging.
I look at Winona. She’s admitting to nothing, except that she exhausted and wants to go back to bed before one of her eyes starts sagging. I’ve never seen one of her eyes start sagging. “Hope your eye doesn’t give you too much trouble, ma’am,” the officers say, tipping their hats, then walking off with my stereo and speakers.
Winona goes to the bedroom. I follow, turning off the lights. We’re barely under the covers when the chirping starts up again.
“Little twerps,” Winona sighs.
“Leave it, honey,” I say. “This is Birdland.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The sun is rising, the sky is blue, and I can hear these words in the cackle and chirp outside: “Lullaby by Birdland whisper low, kiss me my sweet, and then we’ll go…”
