The sound of silence
"Music is life." If I had a penny for every time I have heard someone say this, I would own a much bigger CD collection. If I had to give away a penny every time I thought how true this was, I would be a very poor man. What is it about music that makes it is so unlike any other art form. What gives it the ability to stretch out your heart strings and strum away at them, to make you discover an energy that you never knew you possessed , to move you, to make you see with your eyes closed.
His music is my life. People use a plethora of adjectives to describe his music whereas I need only one- haunting. Strange, you say. But that is the word that best describes what drew me to his work, what kept me captivated. Never are his entire songs haunting, for what fun would that excess be? It is a fleeting few seconds hidden within the minutes, when the barest of human feelings are exposed, on hearing which you wish that the seconds stretch into minutes, the minutes into hours, the hours into eternity. I am rambling senselessly. Am I not? That has always been a problem. I am never able to put my emotions about his music into coherent words, never with the ease with which he puts any emotion into his music. The day I found out a cousin was acquainted with him, I pestered the hell out of him to arrange a meeting, wherever, whenever, however short it would be. Late in the night yesterday, he called and told me he had managed to get me fifteen minutes. Excited incomprehension, dreamlike disbelief, hastily procured last minute train ticket later, I am an hour away from a tick on the list of things to do before I die.
He paused at the gates leading up to the studio. He wondered at the absurdity of this meeting, though he was the one who had asked for it. He was not like he used to be two years ago. Some things had changed irreparably. Would he think he had lost it? Would he be upset at the waste of his time? Or would he be a true reflection of the music he made?
Thinking about it a little more, I think I know just what makes music so unique. It is purely because of how pervasive it is. I wake up to music, listen to it on the radio driving to work, have my headphones on while I work and put my music player in sleep mode and listen to music as I fall asleep. Half my waking hours are spent with music. Its hard to imagine a day without music. I had rather die than even imagine a life without it.
He welcomed him with a big smile, a genuine heart felt expression that blew away his apprehensions. He was as humble as he was made out to be. He had heard about everything from his cousin and he was gracious enough to be neither curious nor sympathetic. He talked mostly about his music as he watched attentively.
The groan of twisted metal was a strange counterpoint to the human wails that rented the air. He slowly stirred to consciousness and immediately sensed that something was amiss. He gradually tried piecing together the events as he recollected them. The train had begun decelerating at an abnormal rate and his rail car had violently shifted off the tracks and toppled over. That was all he could remember. He realized he couldn't move his legs as they were stuck beneath the remnants of his seat. He felt a wetness all over his face, which he guessed was due to blood. He struggled to understand that nagging feeling that something was really odd. He found it puzzling that this was bothering him to a greater extent than the obvious physical pain and discomfort he was under. He noticed the flashlights of the rescue team and screamed out for help. It was at that moment that realization dawned on him. He couldn't hear himself. He couldn't hear anything.
He had made a big list of questions that he wondered why no interviewer asked him, when he was to meet him before. But he didn't feel like asking any of them now. He asked him to speak slower and sit facing him so that he would have an easier time following along. He hesitated a bit and then said
"You must be used to people asking for your autograph or to pose for a photo or two. I don't want any of that. I have a far more outrageous favor to ask. You have already been too kind in bearing with me so far and I may be way out of line here. So please feel free to be rude and refuse. I want you to compose a short piece for me."
Surprisingly, he was not taken aback at this. He smiled that familiar smile of his and nodded his approval, pausing to ask,
"But how can you.."
"Can you play something entirely in bass?"
"I understand."
He walked up close to the state of the art sub-woofer in the studio corner. He knelt down on the ground and placed his hands in front of it . And as he played it, he felt it. Music was his life.
His music is my life. People use a plethora of adjectives to describe his music whereas I need only one- haunting. Strange, you say. But that is the word that best describes what drew me to his work, what kept me captivated. Never are his entire songs haunting, for what fun would that excess be? It is a fleeting few seconds hidden within the minutes, when the barest of human feelings are exposed, on hearing which you wish that the seconds stretch into minutes, the minutes into hours, the hours into eternity. I am rambling senselessly. Am I not? That has always been a problem. I am never able to put my emotions about his music into coherent words, never with the ease with which he puts any emotion into his music. The day I found out a cousin was acquainted with him, I pestered the hell out of him to arrange a meeting, wherever, whenever, however short it would be. Late in the night yesterday, he called and told me he had managed to get me fifteen minutes. Excited incomprehension, dreamlike disbelief, hastily procured last minute train ticket later, I am an hour away from a tick on the list of things to do before I die.
He paused at the gates leading up to the studio. He wondered at the absurdity of this meeting, though he was the one who had asked for it. He was not like he used to be two years ago. Some things had changed irreparably. Would he think he had lost it? Would he be upset at the waste of his time? Or would he be a true reflection of the music he made?
Thinking about it a little more, I think I know just what makes music so unique. It is purely because of how pervasive it is. I wake up to music, listen to it on the radio driving to work, have my headphones on while I work and put my music player in sleep mode and listen to music as I fall asleep. Half my waking hours are spent with music. Its hard to imagine a day without music. I had rather die than even imagine a life without it.
He welcomed him with a big smile, a genuine heart felt expression that blew away his apprehensions. He was as humble as he was made out to be. He had heard about everything from his cousin and he was gracious enough to be neither curious nor sympathetic. He talked mostly about his music as he watched attentively.
The groan of twisted metal was a strange counterpoint to the human wails that rented the air. He slowly stirred to consciousness and immediately sensed that something was amiss. He gradually tried piecing together the events as he recollected them. The train had begun decelerating at an abnormal rate and his rail car had violently shifted off the tracks and toppled over. That was all he could remember. He realized he couldn't move his legs as they were stuck beneath the remnants of his seat. He felt a wetness all over his face, which he guessed was due to blood. He struggled to understand that nagging feeling that something was really odd. He found it puzzling that this was bothering him to a greater extent than the obvious physical pain and discomfort he was under. He noticed the flashlights of the rescue team and screamed out for help. It was at that moment that realization dawned on him. He couldn't hear himself. He couldn't hear anything.
He had made a big list of questions that he wondered why no interviewer asked him, when he was to meet him before. But he didn't feel like asking any of them now. He asked him to speak slower and sit facing him so that he would have an easier time following along. He hesitated a bit and then said
"You must be used to people asking for your autograph or to pose for a photo or two. I don't want any of that. I have a far more outrageous favor to ask. You have already been too kind in bearing with me so far and I may be way out of line here. So please feel free to be rude and refuse. I want you to compose a short piece for me."
Surprisingly, he was not taken aback at this. He smiled that familiar smile of his and nodded his approval, pausing to ask,
"But how can you.."
"Can you play something entirely in bass?"
"I understand."
He walked up close to the state of the art sub-woofer in the studio corner. He knelt down on the ground and placed his hands in front of it . And as he played it, he felt it. Music was his life.
posted by Dreamer at 2:05 AM
6 comments
