Although I haven’t read any primary sources on the topic, I imagine the term “greased pig” to be a holdover from the old days of the state fair. Officials would choose a likely young pig, smear it all over with something akin to bacon grease (hah! Very meta, don’t you think?) and turn it loose to be chased by an enterprising group of young people. The person who finally caught and held the pig could take it home and make it into pork chops. In the meantime, the pig’s terror no doubt added to the general mood of hilarity.
These days I hear the term used sometimes as a metaphor, to describe some abstract concept that is hard to catch and keep. For me, music is one of those concepts. I am told (in all modesty, I assure you) that I have a beautiful clear tone for singing and an excellent sense of rhythm; and I know without being told that I love to sing. So, where’s the rub?
As a child I took obligatory piano lessons (“Bone Sweet Bone” on our old upright piano, to the tune of “Home Sweet Home” with an illustration of a sleeping dog dreaming of a juicy steak bone). As a teenager I tried the guitar for a while, and I learned to play and sing John Denver’s “I’m Sorry,” and from what I understand I did a pretty fair job of it. I also aspired to the harmonica. The trouble appeared when it became obvious that I lacked the ear for tuning the guitar, and for most songs I could sing my own radical a capella version, but I could not match the words to the accompanying music. That, and the guitar strings hurt my fingers.
In my early twenties I landed a great role in a musical melodrama, as part of the Fur Rendezvous (“Rondy”) celebration in Anchorage. I had a song, but I couldn’t master it. I worked and worked with the pianist, but finally we agreed that I could do a “Richard Burton”; that is, the pianist would play some sappy background music, and I would talk my way through the song, throwing in a mournful wail here and there. It worked, and I was a huge hit, but I grieved that I had been unable to sing it.
Fast forward fifteen years, when I finally worked up my nerve to join the Craig Community Choir. After a few times of being unable to utter a sound, I found out that I am an “alto,” and that if I stood close to the other “altos” I could stay on track and sing my part. Heaven forbid I should try to take a lead role in the operation. I find, however, that that has been enough for me. With friends around me, holding me up with a network or sure, strong voices, I can hold onto that pig long enough to belt out a few old favorites.