The what-for of music.

I fell behind with the blog because of an unusually high frequency of gigs this month. Inspiration comes and goes but the bills have to still get paid.

There's this short little scene in the now two decades old (!) movie Patch Adams that I love. Robin Williams (depicting Patch Adams), is checking a self-admitted psych patient into his free clinic, an experiment of altruistic rebellion towards the standardized ways that the sick are often treated. The first things he asks this new patient after getting his name, is "What are you passionate about? What excites you? What turns you on?". The patient replies, "I like to read." Williams responds, " I love to read. What do you like to read? Who's your favorite author?" "Kazantzakis." "Oh. "World is trouble. Man needs a little madness, or else--" "Or else he dare not cut the rope and be free." "That's great, Larry. That's wonderful. We're gonna get along just fine."

That stuck with me when I first saw it, by how efficiently the question could bring two strangers closer together. I teach music privately to three or four dozen students every week and in their first lesson I've found myself in habit of asking them a similar question. "What music do you love to listen to?" The answer to that question throughout the course of lessons with the student gets me closer to a student's taste and personality more than anything else could.

I've asked myself that question many times, often surprised at the answer. And the followup questions: why is this music meaningful? Why am I passionate about it? And essentially, what connects a song, lyric, or piece of art to the feeling being deeply affected by it, changed by it?

These answers seem to come at us all in similar ways. My first interactions with music and other artistic displays weren't usually profound, but carnal. I remember recording my own cassettes from the radio, filled with songs that I just loved listening to. I loved the allure of finding new music, of rock and roll, of a catchy chorus. The innate pleasure of it was reason enough to plug in and turn up the innocuous drug I'd discovered.

Then came, of course around adolescence, music that I felt things for. I could (and often did) interpret ambiguous lyrics sung in emotionally rousing ways to directly pertain to my world, banging open widely as it was. It started to not be satisfying enough for music to simply be catchy, but it had to mean at least something. In hindsight, it's obvious that such music was an excellent conduit of expressing and processing my emotions, especially as a teenage boy often not gifted with straightforward means to do so (success in circuit lies, after all). Such music gave me an outlet to consider my changing life in greater detail. During the breaks I took at my first real job (Walmart, the Big-Box Menagerie) I would spend my 15-30 minutes in the McDonald's section of the store, looking out a large bay window and listening to music on my iPod. I'd write too, rambling teenage thoughts in spiral bound notebooks, peppered with song lyrics that caught my ear and inspired me. It didn't take much.

In those notebooks I postulated a fair amount about the burgeoning meaning that listening to music was taking on for me. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time. I was drawn in unsurprisingly to the sugar of rock bands, addicting chord progressions, or angst-filled ballads. Other discoveries like jazz, early Chicago records I'd jam out to with my friends, or some of the bluegrass I grew fond of came from left field. Sometimes my taste would converge with a friend or one of my parents, and as quickly I'd be a lone fan. My world could be stopped by a song, lyric, or melody that those around me haven't even heard of (or had and passed over).

I'd say now a few things about it. Some music seems to choose us, for a thousand complex reasons wrapping around our history, personality, beliefs, and exposure to different ideas. The more life that I live suggests that much of this choice is deeply innate (in both nature and nurture). Perhaps our ability to try to keep an open mind about new music we come across helps, though I'm the first to point out that sometimes music just doesn't grab you (even if it ought to). 

I know it when it feel though. The thing about being moved by something bigger than yourself is that it can't be predicted or forced. Sometimes just the sound of something would cause instant catharsis walking down a high school hall to the next period. Or how the charm of old music and its quick way of sounding one's world open made the 5:45 departure to marching band rehearsal not only bearable but sacred (a 1985 Crown Victoria with a portable speaker in the backseat driving through the predawn light turned out to be Sand Springs' exclusive jazz club). Such connections I made to music started to prime me to listen to music for what it was and not for how I could relate to it, introducing me to the experimental, the classical, and the fundamental. 

I suspect that it's abnormal to ascribe so much meaning to music. Though for me, that meaning led to clearer eyes and spoke a truth to the often untruthful reality that we all must put up with. For all the opinions I can have about the goodness or badness of something, I always (and sometimes painfully) return to the simple disarming power of art and sound, no matter what it is. In that light, there are things I have discovered and fell in love with from all genres (I had to shake old prejudices and actually listen more than I'd like to admit). 

These days I don't get to listen to nearly enough music. But when I do I swing between so many kinds, still trying to find new things and also not miss the old that I have yet to hear. Only in the 21st century would technology enable me to enjoy indie hip-hop, the entirety of Bill Evans' discography, the incredible alt-country revolution currently going on, and a Brahms symphony I haven't yet heard all effortlessly and all at once. 

I know that drawing inspiration from a million kinds of music just isn't for everyone. But in such a connected age, listening to what's slightly out of your comfort zone or different enough that you'd normally change the station or hit next on your phone- it's a powerful action. It widens ones' world and might just introduce you to something that could change you in a fundamental way (speaking from experience). Ultimately this seems to be true about art, connecting with others and with yourself through it. Disappearing in that connection is what I chase, and sometimes catch.

What's currently giving me frisson: 

• Talking with some students about Kendrick Lamar reminded me of the chilling details in 'Sing About Me (I'm Dying of Thirst)' in which he raps from the perspective of someone from his hometown that was murdered, the verse and lyric abruptly ending in gunshots.
   
• I return often to the arresting Bobby Mcferrin-like Jacob Collier cover of the Beach Boys' In My Room. The harmonies, the piano solo, and the soul of it is immersing every listen. 
   
• The old hymn 'The Old Rugged Cross' has been in my ears recently. When I’m at the piano I have messed around with all the possible harmonies. Cyrus Chestnuts’ version is always what I’m grasping for but don’t ever reach. 
   
• The Avett Brothers singing at this Tiny Desk Concert, and the palpable relational emotion in 'Laundry Room'. This is possibly stuck in my head or heart at any given moment of my day. 
   
• And finally, from the legend Randy Newman and his new record that swings from the cheeky mocking of Vladimir Putin to tender love songs- one of the latter is just beautiful, concise, and erudite.