All language subtitles for The.History.of.Sound.2025.1080p.MUBI.WEB-DL.DDP5.1x264-KUCHU_track3_[eng]

My father said
it was a gift from God.

How I could see music.

How I could name the note
my mother coughed every morning.

What the dog
across the field was barking,

the key of the springtime frogs.

Shape,

color.

I thought everyone could see sound.

Yellow for D.

Tastes too.

My father would play a B minor,
and my mouth went bitter.

It never occurred to me
that music was only sound.

Across the rocky mountain

I walked for miles and miles

Say, I'll never forget my mother's looks

God bless her sweetly smile

There was an old, rich farmer

Who lived in the neighborhood by

He had one lonely daughter

On her I cast my eye...

The town's music teacher
noticed my singing.

She wrote her friend in Boston,
a professor...

which is how I left the farm.

A scholarship
to the New England Conservatory.

Across the rocky mountain

I walked for miles and miles

Lionel?

I walked for miles and miles

I'm sorry,

I know that song from home.
Excuse me.

There was an old, rich farmer

Who lived in the neighborhood by

He had one lonely daughter

On her I cast my eye

She was most tall and handsome

Blue eyes and curly hair

There's no one girl

In this wide world
With her I could compare

Where'd you learn that?

Some forest in England.

My father used to sing it
back in Kentucky.

Did he?

David White.

Lionel Worthing.

- What department?
- Voice.

Well, fa-la-la.

Composition.

- People here know songs like that?
- They don't.

This is...

a hobby in the summers.

Collecting tunes, ballads, songs.

Reminds me of home.

What else do you know?

More than you, likely.

Pretty Saro?

Of course.

Fair Winter?

"One went east,
the other went west"

How about...

Silver Dagger?

No, I don't think so.

- Should I?
- Well, it's such a pretty song.

Well, come on. Let's hear it.

What key?

Come on, what key?

I don't usually sing like this, with...

- With what?
- With everyone talking.

Excuse me!

Quiet, please!

I'm sorry.
I didn't mean that.

Now you have to sing.

You shy?

Don't sing love songs

You'll wake my mother

She's sleeping here,
Right by my side

In her right hand,
A silver dagger

She says that I can't be your bride

All men are false

So says my mother

They'll tell you wicked, loving lies

The very next evening
They'll court another

Leave you alone to pine and sigh

My daddy is a handsome devil

He's got a chain five miles long

And on every link a heart does dangle

Of another maid
He's loved and wronged

Don't sing love songs

You'll wake my mother

She's sleeping here,
Right by my side

In her right hand,
A silver dagger

She says that I can't be your bride

Okay.

Sit here.

Sing me all the songs you know.

David had a thousand songs in his head.

A photographic memory,
you might call it today.

He could play a song note-for-note
after hearing it once.

Oh, I like to rise
When the sun she rises

Early in the morning

I like to hear them small birds singing

Merrily upon their laylums

Hurrah for the life
of a country boy

For to ramble in the new-mown hay

Another drink?

I'm tired.

Bed.
Walk me home.

Come in.
Have some water.

Sorry.
I only have one clean glass.

Come here.

Come on.

The wind doth blow

Today, my love

With a few small drops of rain

I never had
But one true love

And she in the cold grave was lain

- Never mind. It's too long.
- Keep singing, please.

- I'll teach you the rest later.
- What's it about?

A man,

sitting on a gravestone,
not letting his dead lover rest.

She gets annoyed by all his weeping,
tells him to just

leave her alone, let her be dead.

Oh, who is this

That sits on my grave

And will not let me sleep?

She tells him to enjoy life
while he has it, to go away.

It's a good lesson.

Where'd you learn it?

My uncle and I learned it
song-collecting in England.

And why were you there
again?

You're asking a lot of questions
so early in the morning.

I told you everything about myself.
I don't know where you grew up.

You don't?

Newport.

After my parents died, I lived
with my uncle Silas outside London.

I was eleven. Twelve maybe.

You were an orphan?

That's a dramatic way to put it.

I was momentarily unparented.

Silas was surprised
by his newfound fatherhood.

He was determined to make me happy,

duty and all.

The English love duty.

He noticed I was spending all day
singing the songs his maid taught me.

She must have said something
to him about my asking her for songs.

I was an obsessive boy,

severely annoying, I'm sure.

I would ask people to sing me songs
and I'd write them in a book.

Embarrassing.

It all grew from there.

Silas taking me on trips through
the countryside, first around Surrey,

during the summers to the Lake District.
Ireland one summer.

He started to be more interested
in it than I was.

And where's he now?

Dead. Yes.

Fever of some kind.
Which is why I'm back here.

Inheritance
of my parents' Newport house,

a dislike of English weather, etc.

I'm sorry.

For what?

Your uncle

and your parents.

You don't have any other family?

Everyone you know is going to die,
you know that.

I have to go.

I'm busy tonight.

Next week?

- Keep it down!
- Sorry.

Good night!

When the draft came later that year,
classes were disbanded.

Maybe that was it, I thought.

A handful of nights
in one season.

You're going.

That's what I've been told.

Suppose you never have to worry
about the draft,

thanks to these.

I leave this week

to war.

Write.

Send chocolate.

Don't die.

Oh, the snow it melts the soonest

When the winds begin to sing

And the corn, it ripens fastest...

And so I went back to the farm

spring of 1917,

suddenly,

regretfully.

...Before we part

I'd bet a crown
He'd be fain to follow it yet

Oh, the snow it melts the soonest

When the wind begins to sing

And the swallow skims
Without a thought

As long as it is spring

But when spring blows
And winter goes

Me lad, and you'll be fain

With all your pride for to follow me

Were it 'cross the stormy main

Get up!

What's wrong?

What?

You're unhappy.

No, I'm not.

You been like this
since you come back.

You didn't wanna come back.

I understand.

You shouldn't have gone.

If you hadn't gone,

you wouldn't have cared coming back.

You're sick.

Just sing something.

Across the rocky mountain

I walk for miles and miles

Across the rocky mountain

I walk for miles and miles

Across the rocky mountain

I walk for miles and miles

Say, I'll never forget my mother's looks

God bless her sweetly smile

There was an old, rich farmer

Who lived in the neighborhood by

He had one lonely daughter

On her I cast my eye

She was most tall and handsome

Blue eyes and curly hair

Oh, there's no other girl

In this wide world
With her I could compare

You ever seen this?

Let me try.

- Like this, right?
- Yeah.

Dad?

Dad?

Come all ye fair and tender ladies

Take warning how you court young men

They're like a bright star

Of a summer's morning

They first appear
And then they're gone

They'll tell to you some pleasing story

Declare to you they love you true

I once did meet a fair, true lover

A true one too, I took him to be

Then he went away
And found him another...

You look a bit sideways.

You didn't come to the funeral.

Dead is dead.

War in Europe over yet?

No.

Did I tell you about
that charge in Antietam?

Billy Higgins was shot on his horse
ten times and kept riding?

Yeah, you told me.

What the hell was it all for?

Your grandmother was right
about that.

Said we were all fools.

- Shouldn't give her that.
- What?

Coffee.

It's bad for her heart.

"Bad for her heart."
Who the hell told you that?

Will Hall.

His dog died
from eating a bag of coffee beans.

I'll let you know
when I feed her a bag of coffee beans.

My dear silver-throated confederate,

I hope this note
finds its way to you.

How is life on the farm?

As it stands, I return
from my walking tour in Europe.

God help me.

But the day is getting brighter.

I have a position at Bowdoin College
here in the evergreens of Maine.

The department head thought it
a fine idea to record folk songs

for department's regionalist leanings
in the boreal wilderness.

I have time off this coming winter.

I can't drag this talking
sewing machine by myself.

How about a long walk in the woods?

The journey points north.

Roaring fires, logging camps,

birch beer,

old songs.

Meet me on the 1st of January
at Augusta train station.

Bring warm clothes.

Don't dally, just come.

Yours, David.

I'm leaving.

What?

Where?

To Maine, for a music project.

A music project?

Be gone for a month or so.

Maybe longer.

Maybe the spring too.

Is that what you think?

And who's gonna keep this farm?

The farm will be fine.

You'll be fine.

Pardon me?

I'll be fine? Until the spring?

You come in with potatoes
to tell me this?

I'm not leaving right now.

I can't stay here alone.

Grandfather's here.

And there's food for weeks
in the cellar.

Grandpa?

What use is he?

Some, maybe.

I'm just leaving for a while.

You already said that.

Sorry, excuse me.

Thank you.

Welcome back.

Welcome to Maine.

That's all you brought?

Don't have much.

And a pillow.

It was a long trip.

I have the tent.

We need pots. I hope you like oats.

- We're sleeping outside?
- It'll be fine.

We need more blankets.
I told you to bring warm clothes.

You look the same.

You look a little less thin.

You didn't get shot.

Yes, well, not yet.

You never sent chocolate.

My apologies,
I was somewhat distracted.

What now?

We have 36 cylinders,

the ancient machine
the department sent me with.

First, we head north,

then east,

then south to the sea,
along the coast to Augusta.

Around a hundred miles in all.

And you just walk up to someone
and ask them for a song?

I'll teach you to use this.

I'll transcribe the lyrics.

What we're looking for isn't in towns.

You'll find it out there.

First,

we have to catch a train.

- Grab that.
- Now?

Now!
Your train was late.

Where are we going?

Up north,
out of the city.

Well, I thought you said
we needed to buy food.

We got enough for a few days,
we'll figure it out.

I haven't eaten today.

See this?

It's made of wax,
like your candles there.

And this goes on here

and it spins around.

Sound comes down this big horn here

and it shakes this needle
which cuts a line in the wax.

How's that catch the sound?

Well...

The sound is invisible, right?

But it can be physical.

It can touch something,
it can make an impression.

If you had a magnifying glass,
you'd see ridges in the wax like...

like small hills.

Hills don't make sound.

Put your hand on your throat...

now hum.

Can you feel something?

Like a vibration?

- A little tickle.
- Right.

That's sound.

Something shaking the air,
something else.

Shaking the air?

When you wanna play the sound,

just have another needle on here,

jumps over the ridges of sound
and amplifies through this tube.

Will I feel something?

You won't feel a thing.

- It's on?
- It is.

Come, my soul, and let us try

For a little season

Every burden to lay by

Come, and let us reason

What is this that casts thee down?

Who are those that grieve thee?

Speak, and let the worst be known

Speaking may relieve thee

What is this that casts thee down?

Who are those that grieve thee?

Speak, and let the worst be known

Speaking may relieve thee

What do you do?

In April, I open my bill

In May, I sing night and day

In June, I change my tune

In July, far, far I fly

In August,

Away

I must

My grandfather once said
that happiness isn't a story.

So there isn't much to say
about those first weeks.

We'll be all right
If the wind was in our sails

We'll be all right
If the wind was in our sails

And we'll all hang on behind

We'll roll the old chariot along

We'll roll the old chariot along

And we'll all hang on behind

Go to sleep.

Hope you like climbing.

May I ask you something?

Why haven't you said anything
about the war?

Spent a long time in the trench,
it was boring.

Felt worse for the horses.

Saint Francis
was nowhere to be found.

My grandfather talks about the war
like it was the greatest time of his life.

I wouldn't say that.

What would you say?

It made everything dimmer,

cold.

Where are we walking now?

Towards the sea.

What's there?

Malaga Island.

It's been in the newspapers.

I read about it before you came.

Settled by slaves generations back.

Then Irish.

The governor's evicting them.

How so?

State wants the land.

Why are we going?

Poor immigrants and former slaves
would make for strange old music, no?

That doesn't make you
feel uncomfortable?

Why?

Where I come from, you don't
walk into a place like that.

You don't have to do anything.

I'll talk.

Don't you get nervous?

I just make myself
into what someone wants me to be.

It's what Silas did.

You see a Bible on a woman's lap
and you want her to sing,

you're now collecting songs
in God's name.

You see a half-empty bottle
and a man who hasn't shaved,

get him to talk about his trouble.

I once saw Silas
invent a stable of horses

because a farmer was sad
about his dead nag.

So it's like lying then?

Making it easier
for someone to be generous.

An invitation.

Works in all ways,
not just songs.

Lying, if you want to call it that.

Oh, thank you.

- David White.
- Will Swain.

And he, Lionel Worthing.

Musicians collecting songs.

Thank you, Will.

Who are you?

David White.
This is Lionel Worthing.

Academics
on a song-collecting mission.

This is not the time.

We were just looking
to record a song or two,

posterity.

We have no songs for you.

What is it you do here?

A schoolteacher.

Lucky us! We'll be publishing
the songs in a booklet for schoolchildren.

Preserve America's heritage all together.

A booklet?

Well, we could include your class.

I bet you have some fine young singers.

Here in the vineyard

of my Lord

I hope to live and labor

And be obedient to my God

Until my dying hour

I love to see the lilies grow

And view them all a-standing

In the right place while here below

Just as the Lord commanded

Can I get some information?

Full name?

Thankful Mary Swain.

Born?

1891.

And song title?

Here in the Vineyard.

Come, come with me
To the old churchyard

I so well know these paths
'neath the soft green sward

Friends slumber there
That we once did regard

We will trace out their names

In the old churchyard

Mourn not for them
For their trials are over

Why weep for those
who will weep no more?

For sweet is their sleep...

Good morning.

The ground is frozen.

Sorry?

I got two children,

three grandchildren

buried out there

in that graveyard.

And my wife.

I thought it would all just go away,

the governor would find
another project.

I wake up every morning,
look across there,

and I see nothing.

Same trees,

same rocks,

nothing coming.

But when they come,

they'll be coming from there.

Thank you, Will.

We shouldn't have left.
Wasn't right.

What would you have done?

Don't you feel bad?

We didn't say anything,
we just walked away.

The law is bigger
than us.

- But it's wrong.
- I know this.

Maybe you don't understand.

- I don't understand?
- You didn't grow up where I did.

Step in front of the police,
they hurt you, kill you.

What does it matter
where you grew up?

Maybe you don't always know
how things work.

You have no idea what I know,

what I've seen,
about how things work.

You did that?

I did.

Why?

Thanks.

You're going home
after we finish?

I'd go anywhere else,
but I don't have any money.

You could go back to the Conservatory.
Teach, I'm sure.

Lessons.

There's an ocean of parents
with too much to spend.

Is there any jobs
at your college?

You'd hate it there. Small town.

Well, I could help
catalog the cylinders.

I'll just get a student
to do it for me.

You got a whole life ahead of you.

A bigger life.

Why do you want
to stay here?

If I had what you had, I'd leave.
I'd go sing somewhere...

New York.

Europe, Paris, Rome.

I'd go far away, flee.

Make money.

Money's good.

This summer?

Sure.

Really?

Sure.

In case you need anything.

That was a nice way to explain it.

What?

Sound.

I sent David a letter every month
since our trip ended.

They all went unanswered.

I stopped writing
sometime in spring of 1921.

Ciao.

Ciao.

Thank you.

They aren't the right songs.

I don't know why.

Just sing the songs.

You coming to Venice this weekend?
I need to tell Luisa.

I don't think so. No.

Why not?

I'll show you the Venice I know.
Come.

I don't know.

Maybe.

What's wrong?

You seem distracted.

I'm bored.

- I'm boring you?
- No, not you.

I'm just bored with this work.
This choir.

You're in the most prestigious choir
in the most beautiful city.

- So?
- What do you mean, "so"?

I've been offered
a position in England.

England?

I think I might take it.
I've been here too long.

You think you might take it?

Yeah, I've said yes.

Summers are too hot here

and it's a good offer.

Summers are too hot?

Where are you going?

You're telling me
you want to move away?

Yes.

Good luck.

Beware of the American.

- Beautiful work. Tremendous.
- Thank you.

That was beautiful,
Mr. Worthing.

- You've quite a throng of admirers.
- Thank you, darlin'.

You jealous?

Obviously.

- Anyway, I've made a lunch for us.
- Oh, yes?

- What's the occasion?
- No occasion. A picnic lunch.

- Sounds nice.
- It is.

You are a pig!

I'm a rural farm boy.

See, it's part of my charm.

Well, I want to go to America one day,
see this farm.

No, you don't.

See,

every European thinks that
they want to go to America, but...

believe me, things are better here.

Maybe they're just better for you.

I was thinking...

how about coming to my family's home?
Next weekend.

My parents are dying
to meet you.

It's a pretty little place
in the countryside.

I'm imagining a hovel.

- Ivy and cobwebs.
- Oh, yes.

Ghastly.

Old, drafty, but...

it's home. And I love it.

Meeting your parents?

Well, I do think it's time, yes?

Why, sure.

I'd love to.

This way.

I thought you said
your parents were Bohemians?

They are, in spirit.

Hello?

- Mummy?
- Darling, they're here!

Such a pleasure to finally meet you.

- The American songster.
- It's a pleasure.

No, no.
We are informal here.

Clarissa said so many
sweet things about you.

Yes, you too.

- Hello.
- So naughty. Hello.

Come here.

- Come in, please.
- Thank you.

I abandoned my only child
to greet you. Horrible, isn't it?

No, no, not at all.

I love that.

It's Orpheus.

Your patron saint, I think.

Would you sing
your way to hell for me?

Of course.

Would you forgive me
for looking back?

Course not!

That's typical man,
distrustful,

ruining things for the woman.

Is that the story?

It is.

Wait, is it?

No?

I thought he turned around
to offer her a hand...

help her out of the cave.

It's an honest mistake, punished.

No.

No, he doesn't trust Hades
to keep the promise.

I think they like you.

Who?

My parents.

I like them too.

Good.

Can I ask you something?

Do you ever think about...

how you want your life to look?

Look? Like with music?

No, like, like...

wife, kids, family.

I like kids.

Seems like it's what people do.

That's what you want? Family?

I guess.
I don't know.

You worry at all, what we're doing?

What we're doing?

You know, this.

No.

I don't worry.

I think I admire you.

Can I speak with you?

You're so handsome
when you're out of breath.

My mother, she's sick.

Sick? What do you mean?

She's dying.

My grandfather wrote.

I have to go home to see her.

I'm leaving.

When?

Going tonight, or the next day.

I'm sorry, I...

I can't leave her alone again.

University ends in a month.

I'll come with you.
Let's go together.

It's just one month more.

I'm not staying.

I see.

You're leaving, leaving?

Yes.

Well...

Tell me why.

- I'm sorry, I...
- No, I don't want an apology.

You know what my mother wrote
to me after we left?

What?

She said I should leave you...

before you left me.

I want you to go.

Mother?

I had a bottle of burgundy wine

My true love, she did not know

Was there I murdered that dear little girl

Down by the banks below

I drew my saber through her

Which was a bloody sight

Can I help you?

Just out for a walk.

It's Lionel.

Gosh.

Lionel Worthing?

It's been ten years.

This is Lionel from over the hill.
We went to school together.

Thought you lived in the north.
And Europe, did I hear?

Yes, both.

Isabelle, this is a famous singer.

What are you doing back?

My mother died.

Yes, I'm sorry.

Please, keep singing.

No.

Now I'm embarrassed.

Why don't you sing? Let's hear you.

No, I just wanna listen.

I like your voices.

Okay then.

Down in the willow garden

Where me and my love did meet

There we set a-courtin'

My love fell fast asleep

I had a bottle of burgundy wine

My true love, she did not know...

Let me get this straight,
you left a fancy job

where all you had to do was open
your mouth and squawk a few notes,

you come back to Kentucky
to pick apples?

Something is not adding up.

I guess not.

Whatever paints your fence,
friend, but...

I'd leave the farm
if I could do what you do.

I guess I feel like
I'm at the end of something.

The end of something?

What was the beginning?

I don't know.

Probably when I was younger,

in college up in Boston.

I don't think I've been that happy
in a long time.

My mother always used to say,

"Life's only troubles.

"You could get sad,
or you could sing about it."

What else did your mama say?

"Don't marry that son of a bitch,
Nathan McCloud."

- Can I help you?
- The music department?

Are you a tutor?

No.
A friend of mine works there.

Second floor, down the hall.

Thank you.

'Scuse me.

I'm looking for a friend.

David White,

he's an instructor here.

- And who are you?
- Lionel Worthing.

We were at the Conservatory together.

- You know David?
- I did.

What?

Oh.

Well.

He passed away,

years ago.

His...
second year of teaching, I think.

That would've been 1920.

When did you last see him?

It was on a song-collecting trip
that... the department organized.

Song collecting?

Folk songs.
Recordings for the college.

I'm sorry, I'm not sure
what you're referring to.

The department commissioned David
to do a song-collecting trip.

I don't think so.

I was department head for years,
I would've--

What about the cylinders?

- Cylinders?
- Yeah.

Maybe Belle could tell you more.

- Who's Belle?
- His wife.

Ex-wife.

Or widow, I mean.

I'm sorry to be the one
to deliver the news.

Thank you.

I'm sorry,
I think I have the wrong house.

I'm looking for Belle White.

Who are you?

Are you Belle?

Yes, I'm Belle Sinclair.

I'm a friend of David's.

Who's that?

It's a friend of David's.

Yes.

My shift's soon.
Is dinner ready?

Yes.

This is a bad time.

- Come in. I need to feed Henriette.
- No, no, thank you.

I was just looking
for a box of wax cylinders.

Belle, I have to leave in 20 minutes.

Come in.

What are you looking for?

We made recordings of songs,
on cylinders.

Trying to find them
for research.

He didn't tell me much
about his work.

- Check with the college, I'd say.
- I did.

What sort of research is that?

I just keep a record
of the songs people are singing.

You're not paid to have people
yell down a tube?

Bob.

Seems like a nice life.

What's your line of work, Bob?

Fire.

Fire.

My family's been fighting fires
since the town was founded.

Well.

- It was good to meet you.
- Yes, you too.

You okay here alone?

Of course.

Don't do anything with my wife.

- I'm going to put Henriette to bed.
- I should go.

No, don't go, please.

- You're busy. I should go.
- Stay.

I... I haven't had company in months.

Just... stay a little longer, okay?

You don't have to do that.

I'm sorry I never...

wrote you back.

What?

Years ago, all those...

letters you sent to David

from Italy.

You read them?

I read all of David's mail
after he died.

You're a fine writer.

Have you ever heard that before?

Are you gonna ask me
how we met?

You haven't asked me anything
about me and David, I noticed.

I understand,
I just thought you'd be more curious.

Well...

I'm sorry.

How did you two meet?

It was before he went to Conservatory.

It was when I was 13.

We had a house in Newport
next to David's parents' house

and he became friends
with my brother, Henry.

Of course I was just obsessed with David.

Charming friend who lived alone
in a seaside home.

But you know David,
the world loved him.

And then he went to your school in Boston.

And then he came back
for Thanksgiving,

after... my brother had died in Ypres.

He came back to console my parents.

He said he had a teaching position
in Maine.

And a few days after arriving,

he asked me to marry him.

I don't know why he did, and I...

I was 18,
I was a child compared to him.

He'd seen so much
and I'd never left Newport.

He was...

I didn't see anything but him.

He was everything, I mean.

Then we moved here,

but...

things were not... fine.

Shell shock, you know.

It's only, I noticed it too late.

He didn't sleep, he didn't...

talk to me for days, sometimes.

And of course, that's the winter
you went off on your trip.

And then he...

then he was just gone.

He left me here.

What were the circumstances
of his death?

You must know.

No, I don't.

He did it up there
in his office.

I should probably go.

You wait here for a minute.

You can have these back.

And I'll write to you
if I find those cylinders.

Write your address here.

If you could live anywhere,
where would it be?

Sounds pretty nice
where you were with your uncle.

I'll take you there one day.

The Lake District.

I think you'd die
it's so pretty.

The mountains...

Best voice I ever heard was there.

That's including yours.

This boy...

Town called Brackish, I think.

This boy's voice was fit
for the Pope and all the angels,

fit for God.

No, strike that.

It was God.

Where would you go?

Can't imagine I'll move again.

I suppose I like it where I am.

Hello.

I'm sorry,

I think I'm lost.

Lost?

- Where you headed?
- Brackish.

That's 20 miles from here.

You're walking north, you know.

I'm sorry to disturb you both.

I don't know how I got so lost.

I didn't make a plan.

I just got off the train
and I started walking.

I thought I was going
in the right direction.

I thought I could sleep outside,
but it's cold.

Do you have family?

Won't they be worried
about where you are?

No.

No, I'm...

I'm here alone.

A friend, a long time ago,
said that I would like it, so...

I just guess I feel embarrassed,
you know, getting lost.

Mostly I'm just tired,
and hungry and cold.

What's it about?

A man sitting on a gravestone,
not letting his dead lover rest.

She gets annoyed by all his weeping,
tells him to just let her be dead.

Oh, who is this that sits on my grave?

She tells him to enjoy life
while he has it, to go away.

It's a good lesson.

The stalk is withered and dry, sweetheart

And the flower will never return

And since I lost my own true love

What can I do but mourn?

Mourn not for me, my own true love

Mourn not for me, I pray

For I must leave you
and all the world

And go into my grave

So much of this book is not just
about music, but about the musicians,

their lives, journeys.

How did you start
song collecting that way?

I've heard your father
had a significant influence.

I suppose that...

yeah, that's partly true,

about my father.

It was a friend, really,
to be honest.

- A musician?
- Yeah.

He and I were students together
at the Conservatory,

back in 1917.

I went on a collecting trip with him.

That was his passion,

finding old songs.

There was a moment,
decades ago, when I realized that

I had probably never been as
happy as I was when... collecting songs.

Do you have a favorite passage?
Something you could share with us?

I think the introduction's
worth reading here.

"I was recently asked
by one of my students,

what I liked about folk songs,

the ballads especially.

And I found myself saying
that they were

the most warm-blooded
pieces of music.

And I didn't quite know
what I meant when I said it,

but I think I do now.

These are songs
filled with the voices of thousands

who've sung and changed them,

and of the people in our communities,
in our lives.

These are not songs of divinity,

angels, spirits.

They're songs of people.

Songs my father sung,
songs my grandfather knew.

They're songs from experiences,

stories with sadness so great

that they were turned to songs,

as if melody could make hardship lighter.

Orchestral music sharpens the mind,

sometimes the soul.

And choral music

makes you feel a depth of thought
and spirituality.

The ballads in this book
are messy,

human experiences,

events we might like to avoid:

heartbreak, death, jealousy.

And put a lump in your throat
just by the melody.

Emotion in song,

nothing fancy,

"and that's why I love them."

That's beautiful.

Well, my guest this hour has been
ethnomusicologist, professor,

writer, performer,
Dr. Lionel Worthing.

His new book,
Roots and Branches of American Ballads,

explores stories in song.

"I found this in the attic

"years ago,
after we bought the house.

"I saw you on television last week.

"What a coincidence."

Nineteen-twenty.

Hello, Lionel.

I hope this finds its way to you.

I suppose I should explain.

I just feel like there's some...

like there's something in me
that's not...

that's not going away,

like a false note or...

You've been very good to me, Lionel.

Thank you for coming north.

Sorry.

I don't know what to say anymore.

Really.

Don't sing love songs,
you'll wake my mother

She's sleeping here, right by my side

In her right hand,
A silver dagger

She says that I can't be your bride

All men are false,
So says my mother

They'll tell you wicked, loving lies

The very next evening
They'll court another

Leave you alone to pine and sigh

My daddy is a handsome devil

He's got a chain five miles long

And on every link a heart does dangle

Of another maid
He's loved and wronged

Don't sing love songs

You'll wake my mother

She's sleeping here,
Right by my side

In her right hand,
A silver dagger

She says that I can't be your bride

I feel I've missed something.

How to put this?

It's not nostalgia,

it's not grief.

It's the... hardness of a fact

that I should've stayed in Maine.

Would I feel differently
if we hadn't met?

Would I feel now,
that I had missed something?

But we did meet.

And what do I want now?

I want the sound of my life, I think.

What happens to it all,
all the sounds

released into the world,
never captured?

I want all of it.

The history of sound.

Lionel Worthing.

David White.