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.

Band Geek Forever!!

I just had a glorious experience, one delayed for too long.

A few years ago I picked up my horn, and attempted to start playing again. When I realized my third key was sticking (rotary valves have their limitations), and I couldn't play d/a flats, I stopped playing; it was the middle of band-instrument repair season, and Pacific Winds was too busy to take my horn. Finally, the week before my 30th birthday I decided it was now or never and hauled my baby to the shop! (Awesome how turning a nice round number like that prompts action.)

A Horn Straight Mute

Tonight I took my horn out of her case (I named her "máquina del amor" in high school), and discovered that despite totally diminished lip muscles, I can still make right notes come out of my horn, remember a modicum of fingerings, and can play without sounding spitty for all of, oh, ten minutes. At minute eight, I grabbed my mute and played Star Trek-like creepy muted horn parts at the top of my lungs. Just like old times.

It's strange to have to relearn things I used to know so well: tonight I started the long process of retraining myself on how to figure out where all my spit went (which valve to dump? which valve?). Luckily, these days I'm sure I can use youtube to remind myself of what grease/oil goes where during routine maintenance.

After I played tonight, I ran to the mirror, thrilled to see the tell-tale red mark of Horn playing on my lips. Simple joy: there is nothing like participating in the creation of music.

We're back, baby!