Voices of Spring

I'll admit that classical music doesn't mean as much to me as classic rock (and if 90% of you are honest, you'll admit it too). Sure, I know- and like- Beethoven's 9th, and the stuff that everyone knows. Holst: The Planets? Love it. But there are plenty of gaps in my music knowledge. For instance, I'd never heard Voices of Spring until exposed to it in Iceland by Viðar.

Viðar is a 65 year old man whose library contains leather-bound volumes of the Icelandic sagas. His musical preferences don't exactly run along the lines of AC/DC and Megadeth. So when we were driving through the Icelandic countryside, I asked what the hideous music we were listening to was called (I left out the hideous part). He said Voices of Spring in the quizzical way most of us would say "Stairway to Heaven". You know Stairway? Hello! Duh?!' He went on to explain that back then prepubescent boys with beautiful singing voices were castrated in order to preserve their voices at a mezzo-soprano. I'd heard of the practice of castrato before, so I was grossed out for a second time.

I did the best I could to tolerate Voices of Spring, because there are few things I love more than a day trip to a new place. Driving through Iceland was like winning the lottery. There were glaciers! Black mountains! Geyers! Icelandic horses! And... there was Voices of Spring.

I knew I was fortunate to have met such a nice guy on my first trip alone overseas. But Voices of Spring was killing me. Seriously. I did the best I could to not say anything. That is until the ball-free tenor (mezzo soprano, whatever) hit a high note that made the windows in Viðar's car shatter. The singer was like "Ah, ah, ah, ah AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH" and I lost it. I asked if he had any other music.

Frank Sinatra never sounded so good.