On Music

Was it the segment - on Sesame Street, I believe, though my memory has unified the television of developmental years into a single mosaic - proclaiming "rhythm is everywhere"? Was it the intoxicating transcendence attached to singing in church? Correct in belief or not, there is power in a hundred voices melodically affirming faith. Was it theme songs, Disney movies, lullabies, ad jingles, Christmas carols, kum-ba-yas, or parades? It certainly wasn't singing "ta, ta, ti-ti ta"" with my grade school music teacher. Her methods might have been generally proper but they sure didn't make me want to learn music.

Something, including any, all, or none of the above, switched on the music in me. From the beginning of memory and presumably before I have craved music: to hear, to sing, to play (but not to dance, never that), and to feel.

Whatever chose my interest - God, god, or gods; the universe, fate, chance, biology, environment, the music itself, or me - was a fan of the underdog. I wasn't drawn in for my musical talents. I knew early that I didn't have perfect pitch, and it became increasingly clear that in one sense I am tone deaf. What I mean is that while I can recognize when two instruments are out of tune with one another, I am utterly incapable of determining which is incorrect and in which direction. This led to a lot of embarrassing moments of frozen terror while I pondered whether I was sharp, flat, or pockmarked with grainy bumps. This same embarrassment arose when after years of tromboning I still couldn't recognize the accuracy of pitch of one horn playing alone.

I was also ungifted in voice quality, lung capacity, and muscle memory. There are other areas of deficiency, but those sum the problem well. I suppose I did have the math proficiency requisite to success in music, and the ability to read and interpret symbols. I was also possessed of a certain amount of resourcefulness.

The lack of natural talents and abilities didn't deter me from blundering ahead. I discovered that while I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, I could send it where it needed to go with a system of pullys, levers, hoists, and boxes. I was never really able to "feel" the music, but this mental Rube Goldberg approach brought me to a respectable level of proficiency.

So far, the results of my duct-tape remedies have produced a competent trombone player and a nearly competent singer. I can read most music with at least an approximation of correctness, but to capture its style I must hear it once (or more). It continues to amaze me that the same rhythm and pitches can be played correctly many subtly different ways. I liken it to "finding the zeroes" in algebra. Upon sight reading, though, I always seem to pick the wrong interpretation .

I suppose full disclosure would force the past tense upon me, as I have allowed a year to pass since playing or singing music save sing-alongs with the radio or at concerts. I am not ready to believe, though, that my time as a trombnist has ended more than temporarily. I don't claim excellence, but I do claim competence and derive enjoyment from playing.

It's something of a paradox that I achieved even competence. Practice happened, but not with stunning regularity. I never studied music theory, so I didn't even try to compensate for my shortcomings by application of my strengths. Competent or not, it is clear that I am a member of a group or section and not a soloist. I was never able to acquire "my own sound," nor did I evolve the ability to maintain tone quality at great volumes. And dear lord, don't ask me to improv. To extend this truth to my vocal chords, I can read choral music and sing a part more or less properly, but my range is sorely limited in both directions and my voice just isn't that pleasant on its own.

So why all these ponderings on music? Mere reflection, perhaps, but also an acknowledgement of what music has always stirred in me. There are few things in life not improved by good music, and most are improved even by bad music. It was my privilege to learn this lesson early, and so my thoughts often turn to melody and harmony. I will close with a recollection regarding music's black-sheep cousin: dance. A friendly lady who was (and still is) active in my childhood churh had a great repoire with the children among the congregation, and was particularly prone to praise my achievements and helpfulness. She had several pet phrases at her command, such as "he's no flat tire." Her favorite, or at least the one I earned the most often, was "I'll dance at your wedding." Even then, I could only think "Good. That's one less I'll have to dance."