Music is Not for Spectators

For anyone who's ever played in a band, there is no high to be gotten in life that exceeds the moment when all the right notes swell up together, a symphonic wave, and wash over the players. In that moment the feeling of rightness is not abstract, it is absolute; everyone is tuned in, everyone is present, those sound waves are passing through bodies synchronously. It feels like life enhanced, from black-and-white to color, iPod earbud to surround sound.

There are many years of stretching, reaching for the right notes, veering off pitch, squeaking, squawking, banging the wrong drum, scrabbling for the melody like a mountain climber losing their grip. It's ugly and painful, but the satisfaction of the song played well is righteous.

We feel the song in the dark, in our toes, our hips, our heads bopping. The song travels the length of our spines, the strands of our hair, reaching (literally) into our minds. The voice rises up, the heart changes its rhythm; there is nowhere to go but inside the song.

To solely listen is to be alone, but to sing, to dance, is to join oneself to moment.

I am picking up my bass and remembering that each finger being cajoled into position, my right hand learning where the strings sit, my toes tapping a beat my pinky finger might miss, will one day result in that supreme feeling of being part of a song that is so much bigger than I am, a song in which I have a role.