Music is an incredible art. Probably because it is a tradition of expression and communication dating back so far that it goes unrecorded as to the beginnings. It is something that every single human being can identify as an interest. We all listen to music, whether we consider other's tastes in it "good" or "bad" is far too biased of a declaration. Although I tend to be picky about music, I have never shunned the acceptance of the art in it's various forms for everyone else to enjoy. For me, music takes on a meaning beyond that of just enjoying the sound. Music is so much more than just hearing to me; I feel it, I taste it, I devour every note, every line of lyric, and when it's all over, I want nothing more than to experience it again and again. Ever since I was a child hearing music has been my obsession. From Mozart to, well, whatever I'm into at the moment. My father always appreciated that in me. I can remember him putting on records of classical music and, of course, the most vibrant memory is that of the Broadway soundtrack to The Phantom of the Opera. I would hear music and suddenly get real quiet, close my eyes and dream I was there, inside of it. I wanted to own every note and keep them with me always.
Naturally, I decided to try and create my own music. After my dad taught me the basics of piano, I sat there obsessively trying to make music. Well, several instruments later I learned that perhaps something that unique, that perfect, that absolutely beautiful actually does take a special kind of natural talent. But I had my voice and I used to sing for anyone who asked, but as I got older that eagerness to perform sort of just plain died and I stuck with singing in the shower. Although my grandmother does desperately try, "But you're voice is beautiful! Why don't you sing?!"
"Well, grandma, if it is as beautiful as you say, shouldn't I keep it inside for the right listener? Beautiful things should never be tossed about as if they were worthless imitations of originals."
So she continues to shuffle around the kitchen making cakes and singing her favorite hits from the 40's and 50's. My grandmother and I share a common stubbornness.
As I grew up, mostly with my father's music blaring from the stereo system, echoing around the neighborhood as the summer breeze carried it through the house, I developed certain tastes for the "right" sound and the "perfect" lyrics. As I was also an avid poetry writer (not very good poetry, mind you), I found in songs an entire new way to deliver the emotion of a poem through the perfection that is music.
My dad used to tell me stories of his glorious summers growing up. Songs would bring him back to specific years, even moments of his life and I always found that to be a spell that is intertwined in music, as I've experienced the same thing. But the power of music was written in the telling of one of his stories as "Vincent" by Don McLean came on the radio while we were playing chess.
He told me when he was fourteen he had a friend with a little brother who was mentally challenged and would sway back and forth whilst mumbling nonsense. One day they were playing cards and the little brother was sitting with them, swaying and mumbling, and that song came on the radio. Suddenly the boy stopped swaying, looked up at the people sitting at the table and said, "This song is about Vincent Van Gogh," and then, just as quick as he had stopped, went back to swaying and mumbling.
There, in that thirty seconds of conciousness, is the proof of how profoundly powerful music really is and for that matter, how important it is. "Vincent" is a very poetically beautiful written song, no real masterpiece, but the context of it is the saddest truth of one person's actual life and this boy recognized it. It was probably only because of the mentioning of Starry Night, but no less impressive when you consider that a second before speaking he appeared the most disassociated member at the table.
To me, the story always reminds me of the day I finally realized that there is no possible way to meticulously write a song based off of the knowledge of notes, rhythm, and time. Music is much more powerful than that. Music takes a true artist to conquer it, to sit down and just know it. It's Mozart, constantly hearing music in his head and jotting perfection down on sheets of paper with no mistakes and no copies made. It's Beethoven, desperately pounding the keys, feeling the music he was unable to hear. It's four geniuses meeting, collaborating, and creating the greatest collection of art in our time. It's the man playing saxaphone, echoing through the stone gateways of the Louvre on a summer night in Paris, whom I paid 42 of my remaining Euros and smiled, having no way to put in words the love I felt for the sound he was creating. I have no talent for the instruments. Although I long for it and envy it with every bit of flesh on my body, I lack the ability to create music the way some can. But I am thrilled with the idea that I have ears still, and I can still feel it and taste it too. Yes, I love music with an astounding passion. It's an escape to a world that is safe and filled with dreams and other such romances. It corrupts me and holds me just as words do, all through the madness of the midnight hours.
So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with that song:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM
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