Some believe that birth and death are life defining moments. Presumably, therefore, they deserve a soundtrack to match. The reality in our family has been more prosaic. My daughter, Zoe, now aged 9, arrived after a long labour. Discarded tapes of Vivaldi's Four Seasons littered the delivery suite. Unfortunately Zoe's parents were less well organised. The scramble to the hospital allowed time only for a rummage in the glove compartment of our car, which provided a battered copy of Twenty Golden Country Greats as the sole musical accompaniment to the birth. On a good day my wife acknowledges a sneaking regard for Tammy (“five husbands and 15 abdominal operations, honey”) Wynette. So it could have been worse. The lyrics seemed appropriate (“sometimes it's hard to be a woman”), but the chorus left something to be desired (“stand by your man”). At least we didn't hit “D.I.V.O.R.C.E” until mother and daughter were well into recovery.
It seems inevitable that my passing will be marked in similarly tasteful fashion—perhaps the immortal Peter Sellers' song, “They're Digging up Grandpa's Grave to Build a Sewer”? When I was a boy, my aunt, then a radio announcer, declined my request to play this tune on air. But that's another story. . . .
Jeremy Anderson director, Centre for Clinical Effectiveness, Monash University-Southern Healthcare Network, Melbourne, Australia
To be born to? Handel's Water Music, which is full of tunes that would accompany the breaking of the waters.
To die to? “Etz chaim hi lamahazikim bah,” the beautiful melody sung by the cantor as the Torah scrolls are returned to the ark on the Sabbath. The Hebrew translates as “The holy law is a tree of life to they who grasp it.” My name also means tree, and the song would remind me of the fruit and branches left behind, which secure a degree of genetic immortality.
Michael Baum professor emeritus of surgery, University College London
To be born to? For the child I would choose “All That you Have is Your Soul” by Tracy Chapman. This is an inspirational song about learning not to want material things, but to hunger for truth and justice.
For the parents I would choose “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak. We used to sing this song to my daughter when she woke up at night as an infant. It's about having someone come into your life whom you love more than you ever thought possible . . . and then they go away.
To die to? I want two different songs by Lucinda Williams. The first, “Sweet Old World,” is serious because it describes all the things we will miss when we leave the world—a touch, a smell, a sound, some very ordinary things. The other choice, “2 Kool 2 be 4-Gotten,” makes me laugh. Some people might wish to be immortalised for their outstanding achievements, but I just want to be 2 kool to be 4-gotten by my friends.
Lisa A Bero associate professor, department of clinical pharmacy and Institute for Health Policy Studies, University of California, San Francisco, United States
I would like to die in my sleep of “natural causes”—at home and with no preamble. I realised many years ago that things may not work out that way, however, and signed up as a life member of the Voluntary Euthanasia Society. The BMJ's challenge means that I will now append to my existing advance directive my choice of music to die to! I like bass-heavy string ensembles (quintets and upwards). Richard Strauss's Metamorphosen (preferably in the septet version) would remind me what a lousy place the world is; Mendelssohn's Octet would remind me that the idealism and energy of young people are reasons for continuing to hope that future generations will make a better job of things than my generation has done.
Iain Chalmers director, UK Cochrane Centre, Oxford
When my son Joe was born, I held my little parcel of rapture and hoped everything for him. Bovalgie's “Plaid”—a Scottish air by the “Strathspey King,” James Scott Skinner (1843-1927), played by Alasdair Fraser (fiddle) and Paul Machlis (synthesiser)—is the most sublime of tunes, evoking optimism, melancholy, comfort, and love. Instant tears.
At my mother's funeral, I requested Elizabeth Schwarzkopf's soaring, angel-voiced “Beim Schlafengehen,” the third of Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs, with words by Hermann Hesse.
Going to Sleep Now the day has wearied me. And my ardent longing shall the stormy night in friendship enfold me like a tired child Hands, leave all work; brow, forget all thought. Now all my senses long to sink themselves in slumber. And the spirit unguarded longs to soar on free wings so that, in the magic circle of night, it may live deeply, and a thousandfold.
But for the long stretch in between, give me the Zairian rumba of Franco and TPOK Jazz—criss-cross rhythms that explode with happiness!
Simon Chapman editor, Tobacco Control
To be born to? Dies Natalis by Gerald Finzi. Finzi's setting of Thomas Traherne's words illuminates the wonder of the world for the newborn and provides exultation for the listener. Get the version sung by Ian Bostridge, and support this underrated British composer's centenary year in 2001.
To die to? “Night into Day” by Simon Thoumire. This young Scottish genius composed it for his concertina-led folk-jazz trio; it has the non-sentimental, non-depressing exquisite poignancy that makes a suitable soundtrack to which one might slip off the mortal coil; like Finzi, Thoumire is a truly original composer, whose signature melodies stretch emotion and cognition.
Ian J Deary professor of differential psychology, department of psychology, University of Edinburgh
To be born to? Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band's “Safe as Milk.” As the captain said, “I may be hungry, but I sure ain't weird,” which is as good a message as any from a new baby to his mother.
To die to? Velvet Underground and Nico's “Heroin.” Life is short, brutish, and hard and with full control over the rate of infusion and Maureen Tucker's drumbeat, I know I could die in comfort.
Shah Ebrahim professor in epidemiology of ageing, department of social medicine, University of Bristol
To be born to? Well, the “Dambusters” march, obviously. But hang on—who listens to the wishes of neonates? Anyway, obstetric good taste would prevail against such low humour, so I'd have to hope for “Dawn” from Wagner's Götterdämmerung. Forget the mythology—the climactic harmonic suspensions last long enough to take people's minds off the most protracted delivery.
As for dying, my advance directive will specify Rachmaninov's choral Vespers for their dark sublimity—with the strict proviso that at the (literally, please) last minute someone switches tracks to Oscar Peterson striding exuberantly into “Blues Etude,” while (hopefully) I stride out of life in similar spirit.
Martyn Evans editor, Medical Humanities
I was a medical student attending my first childbirth in the Rotonda Hospital in Dublin, when a young woman of 15 came in with pains in her stomach, unaware she was pregnant. Her whole family was shocked. She was distressed and pushed the baby out quickly. Meanwhile, in the background, muzak piped out across the labour suite. It was a beautiful sunny spring morning. The song was “House of the Rising Sun”—perfect music to be born to, as it is music in praise of a brothel.
Death is different, and the quiet atmospheric music of Jan Garbarek's “Visible World” would suit me. I would want music that was not too intrusive, and music that would not distract me from attending to my loved ones but created some peace as I took my last look at this visible world before slipping into the big black darkness beyond.
Michael Farrell senior lecturer, National Addiction Centre, London
As I was completely indifferent to music until I became a choirboy and heard the Hallelujah Chorus for the first time, I would hardly have appreciated music of any type at my birth. My mother, however, loves Gregorian chants and would no doubt have been soothed by listening to one during her labour. This could also have had the fortunate side effect of easing my passage into the world.
Since we have lived in Wales my wife and I have come to enjoy male voice choirs. So for my death I would choose the Morriston Orpheus Choir singing “Eli Jenkins' Prayer.” Dylan Thomas's playful warning (“whether we last the night or no, I'm sure it's always touch or go”) would finally have caught up with me. For my wife, who from demographers' predictions and my own confident expectation is bound to outlive me, it might provide a little solace as it is her all time favourite.
David Greaves editor, Medical Humanities
To be born to? Bob Marley and the Wailers singing “No Woman No Cry.”
To die to? Handel's oratorio Deborah—especially the duet “Smiling Freedom” (with James Bowman as counter tenor). Why? Because it makes me feel really good and contemplative when I hear it. Its not too rousing, which I wouldn't want as I go off. I did consider a piece of Beethoven, but he goes in for such prolonged endings!
Irene Higginson professor of palliative care and policy, King's College and St Christopher's Hospice, London
“Twist and Shout” by the Beatles gives some good advice about how to negotiate the birth canal and about expected behaviour in the first few minutes of life! Miserere Mei by Gregorio Allegri is an excellent setting of the penitential psalm 51—a good preparation for death.
Julia Hippisley-Cox senior lecturer in general practice, University of Nottingham
Initially I planned a thematic, well researched, and orchestrated concert for my last moments. But then I realised there's no reason why my death should be better organised than anything I've managed in my life. I appear to be intending to die lying down in peace; if I go in tempestuous circumstances, I will need to liven up my selection. My initial choice was inspired not by patriotism, but what I have come to recognise as romantic love for the place I come from—Nova Scotia on the east coast of Canada. I'd want “Farewell to Nova Scotia,” sung by any number of rich voices, slowly and sadly but with no schmaltz. I'd love it to be sung by Rita McNeil, a Cape Breton working class singer who always makes me cry no matter what the song, although I don't know whether she sings it. Stan Rogers's “The Idiot” is a song about “goin' down the road” to find employment away from Nova Scotia, which I always regarded with sociological distance until I realised with surprise that it applies to me. It is sorrowful, rueful, and pragmatic and not quite as heart breaking as many others on his album Northwest Passage.
I want John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman to celebrate my friends and family with “Dedicated to You,” a love song, but one which reflects the way I have always felt about them all. Joan Armatrading's “Love and Affection”will bring back my time in London. Youssou N'Dour's “My Hope is in You” will remind me that my attempts “to make the world a better place” will be carried on by others and will also remind me of Africa, which I have come to love. “Rock you Gently,” by Jennifer Warnes, will bring back to me all the romantic passions in my life. Some would say a choice of Leonard Cohen shows a morbid sentiment that longs for death, but “Ain't no Cure for Love” is one of his more cheerful songs, and it reminds me that despite the devilish pain that love causes, I never wanted a cure. And Joni Mitchell's “River” will take me back to Canada. And now, having created a moving, serene, and heartrending programme to die to, I'm going to put on Madonna's latest and dance!
Barbara James assistant director, Institute for Health Sector Development, London
To be born to? Anything by Jools Holland and his Blues Orchestra would start life off with a “feel good” factor.
To die to? It's difficult to choose the mood, as you don't know what you'll be doing at the time. For a peaceful end, I'd choose Tommy Smith's “Memorial” from an album of music inspired by the poems of contemporary Scottish poet Norman McCaig.
Hamish McKenzie microbiologist and jazz musician, Aberdeen
To be born to? Instead of music, I suggest a Mohawk prayer that honours all of the world. It honours Grandmother Moon, who cares for the women and the tides; the stars, who are those who have passed to the spirit world; Brother Sun, who travels the world each day and without whom there would be no life; the birds of the sky and the trees and plants of the earth, which provide shelter and nourishment; the animals and insects; the rains and the thunderstorms, which nourish the earth; the waters and all that live in the waters and those animals that live beneath the surface of the earth. This introduces the new baby to the intricacy of the world and is a reminder that each if us has our place and our responsibilities to the rest of the universe.
To die to? Chopin's Nocturnes for their beauty and tranquillity.
Ann C Macaulay associate professor of family medicine, McGill University, Canada
To die to? “Watermark” by Enya. Enya's music, much of it instrumental, offers a quiet but melodic journey, filled with passionate feeling and calm acceptance. It is the music of mystery, as in the song “Evening Fall,” with the lines “As I walk the room there before me a shadow from another world, where no other can follow. Carry me to my own, to where I can cross over . . . I am home. I know the way.” Alternatively, Bach's melodies are spiralling, evocative, and very spiritual. Bach's music has been described by one family caregiver as “incredibly uplifting and a spiritual oasis.” A woman I know had the weekly hymns from her church recorded and brought to her bedside. The beauty of the music combined with the connection to her personal spiritual community made this music extraordinary.
Michael Rabow department of medicine, University of California, San Francisco, USA
To be born to? Jan Garbarek's “Rites.” What better way to enter a diverse, multicultural world than to music which ranges from the drums of Africa to the haunting tones of Garbarek's soprano saxophone?
To die to? Van Morrison's “Coney Island.” Coney Island is on the Lecale peninsula, a magnificent, windswept part of the Irish coast, close to the small churchyard where many of my forebears are laid to rest.
Rosalind L Smyth Brough professor of paediatric medicine, University Institute of Child Health, Alder Hey Children's Hospital, Liverpool
I suggest “Start me up” and “Let me go,” both by the Rolling Stones.
Gregory Stores professor of psychiatry, Oxford
I would like to die to Bunny Berrigan's “I can't get started.” It is witty and reflects some achievements and future hopes.
Lewis Wolpert professor of biology as applied to medicine, University College London