"How does this not prove it? That in this music, I can feel."For my first Sunday Scribblings post I am forced to take on a giant of a prompt. At the outset I will let you know: I fear where I may go, I fear what I may write and then hastily delete, I fear what I may give away, I fear that is the essence of writing.
I write this at midnight on a Saturday night and Sunday morning, between one gregarious show and one exhausting festival, both centered around the ideals of freedom and independence in a "we're too cool for school" light. I don't begin to imagine how music is more influential in my life than it is in others, because even as I tell myself it is one of my few true passions, I tell myself I'm a joke for using such a general term to fill in such a specific blank. Music has it's own myspace category after Interests, you know. It's just that applicable and affecting, one of the five senses. But nonetheless, I have many of my own stories attached to music. My father is a musician, I spent plenty of my childhood memorizing a very few parentally selected albums, making stories in my head to them (instrumental and classical I coined "imagination music"), learning sleep in their movements, and quizzically pressing Stop-Rewind-Play to record and absorb an instrument or a line of what I heard to be scripture. Music of course evolved as I did, and what I feared at the onset of this was that I would go back to the time when music became less of a companion and more of a lifestyle. The tired story of when my new surroundings turned music into an interactive and enveloping force, with all of the teenage romanticism related to bands coming in all types: personal garage, revolutionary, and obscure (often for a reason). Nonetheless, this is how I began to feel music. In moshpits there is a stifling smell of sweat, feet, and trust all coming from the back of the person in front of you, the arms and chest of the person behind you, and the jabbing elbows of those at your side. Lyrics can become anthems of Baptist Church and tongue-speaking energy amongst strangers in a moment of zealous bass drums, stomping feet, raised hands, and bursting out-of-tune vocals. That quiet headspace time becomes infiltrated with smooth voices whispering frightening truths. Music transfers emotions and gives mood movement, that spreads through every part of the body, mind, heart, and soul.
I have felt my first confession of love from speakers at two AM in my grandmother's basement, traded and shared ear-to-ear grins from depreciated musicians, seen the world turn a new shade of blue as a person is born in the first chords of a song, and have ran away from the layers of time that add themselves to each track of songs whose meanings cannot be discussed amongst the speaker and receiver. I have felt love return in music as gliding hazy birds above, secrets coming through headphones from unexplained angry stares, and with back against a wall as the lights go down and souls become unattached and flow from tapping feet, bass drum, lifted chest, and refilling soul.
I have loved as deep as a lifetime in a world beyond the visual, tangible, and spoken.
So, I went from objective to subjective, in a scary offshoot that sent me back to a state of mind I have been removing myself from these days. For music's influence on my life the past few years has been so great I often worry and remember: the Devil was the Angel of Music. For all of it's saving grace's there is also danger in the overwhelming job music has in shaping the soul. Music has Power
¶ 10:40 PM
I don't know that music shapes the soul - I think certain music resonates with each of us, but that's almost an afterthought. The music we love and listen to changes throughout our lives, just as our interests and influences change. Fascinating post about your own relationship to music and its connecting thread throughout your life. Well done!