I was drawn to this book when I learned it featured a student of music from Indiana University in the 1970s who grew up in East Tennessee and moved back there. Having lived for a time in both places, I was interested. For me it was Knoxville in the late 1960s and Bloomington in the 1970s.
Livia, the main character, grew up in a troubled family in the hills of East Tennessee and escaped by way of a scholarship to Indiana University’s School of Music, one of the best in the country. After two medical disasters that were wrenching for me to read about, Livia returned home and lived a different, but satisfying life. She married a childhood friend and together they ran the dairy farm she inherited and she taught music. This bare outline leaves out the brilliant plotting which brought me joy.
I assumed I would identify with the Indiana University Livia experienced in the 1970s, but she was in that rare circle of music students, a world unto themselves. Other than the references to familiar street names and buildings, it was not the Bloomington I knew. I noticed that the author used the current name of the street that was Jordan Avenue until 2022, when its name was changed from the infamous eugenicist to a prominent Black family. There was mention of that famous presence, Hoagy Carmichael who grew up there.
I loved the way the author writes about Livia’s connection to music, especially here: “Music theory was miraculous, like a set of equations that made every piece I’d ever struggled to memorize fall clickety-clack into place, even retroactively back to the two-part inventions that had tripped me up in middle school.” And even more this passage:
A crowd of students filled the plaza, spellbound like me. The singers stood on a platform with a red-lettered banner behind it, so huge it hid the fountain. “FREE SOUTH AFRICA,” it commanded. I only had eyes for the singers. Four women, young or maybe medium young, all African, I had to guess, not just from the unfamiliar language of their song but also the beads and shells of their jewelry and printed-cloth head wraps and dresses. Their sound was beyond description, voices sliding around together, harmonizing in eerily doubled, ringing parallel thirds and fourths, exotically pentatonic. Parallel octaves, even. Every single thing about this music was breaking the rules I’d learned in Theory I.
At the end of the book the author wrote about the country folks of Livia’s community and described their easy-going ways, always ready to get together for a gathering, unlike more urban, sophisticated folks. I found this unnerving because it perfectly described the people we knew in Bloomington who were part of the old-time music and dance world. If someone suggested a dance in the local park would be fun, someone would string up lights, others would bring their instruments, and many would bring food. We once said we’d like to have a dance party at our house, and a caller, folks with instruments, and food and drink appeared at the appropriate time. And it reminded me of our Friday night gatherings: I would prepare by buying a case of Blatz beer, ($5.00) and sweeping the floor (sometimes). A growing number of folks showed up and we then decided what food to order. Jennifer, then Abby came into this world and were beloved by all.
You have to love a book that brings back such happy times.
Barbara Kingsolver, Partita, Harper, 2026, 338 pages (I read the Kindle version). Available in the public library.