Tonight, one of my dearest, lifelong friends came over for dinner... and more importantly, a jam session. My Sweet Tim Coray has known me for probably 25 years, and was one of the truest friends of my precious brother. That being said, we obviously share a very layered, complex and sacred history. But our present brings me indescribable joy.
My entire life, when I have performed with or accompanied someone (or an ensemble of people,) there is a feeling that few people in the world get to experience. You are suspended. You are without time. You are without location. You are without history (even if it is written in blood,) and you are without future. You are breathing the same breaths, in unison, moving together in tempo, playing any variety of music.
... it might be a statement song that was performed at a ceremony such as a wedding or academic function...
...or a funeral of someone you lost and loved in common.
During this time, you are suspended. You are timeless, ageless, weightless, faceless. You hear each other's mistakes, you hear each other's insightful additions, descants, harmonies and inversions. In a strange sense, they are equally welcomed, which is a surprise to me as a perfectionist. You are accepting of all of them - the ones that work and the ones that don't... because this is as close to church as I get. If you choose to believe in a God that gives us talents, or if you don't and you believe that people work really hard to develop their abilities, this is what my own personal truth is. I am never more genuine, without pretense, sans schedule, anti-agenda than I am when I am performing with anyone. ANYONE I LOVE.
The tandem performance was indoctrinated in me at a very young age. I was my dad's (a professional and phenomenal singer) accompanist as early as I can remember. Regardless of the state of our relationship, or any current events in my family or childhood, we were suspended together in this timeless, yet finite, bliss of performance. This developed a craving in me... few things in the world edify me more than playing meaningful music with another musician, or performing it solo for an occasion that will mark someone's life forever (a 90th birthday party, a funeral of someone lost too young, a wedding between a young, electrified couple, just embarking on the road of labels, occasions, anniversaries, demarcations.)
Tonight, during my "nearly out of body" performance time with dear Tim, I also got to witness my daughter's exposure to our experience. Tim generously gave her the violin, and for at least 30-45 minutes, she played, in her own way. He taught her how to hold the bow, and the full size instrument which was far too large for her, but who cared... she was making music, by herself, on her own terms. She was playing musical phrases that equated to English phrases with syllables as the common denominator. The things she thought of were darling, precious, hilarious, and absolutely bizarre.
It dawned on me as I watched her "play," that this is the purpose. Experience it for yourself to the point of edification, and pass it down to a willing participant. She sang for us, for the first time with a "live band" (really just piano and violin,) but we happily accept the term "Power Trio" instead. She played every family member's name. She played phrases that were names of food, parts of songs, things we say to her over and over, and things she could very simply identify within view (i.e. wine, glasses, beard, bald, Sheldon Died, Mac and Cheese in a Pot, etc.)
It was shocking how straight her primitive bowing was. I still can't do that (obviously my time and energies were put into another instrument, even though violin is my second love.) During this time, it hit me in the face as hard as a baseball that the stage was no longer my stage. My stage was a space without definitive shape that invited others of various skill levels. We recorded much of what she said while she was playing and learning bow strokes, but I truly hope I can hold onto just a clear glass shard of what she vocalized to us that inspired her tonight.
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| All the babies love Uncle Tim. |
After Tim and I played a duet of "Lullaby" by Billy Joel, Tim asked Claire to describe what she heard in one word. It was very hard for her - she usually cries when she hears that song and doesn't like it when she has to sing or hear it. But after several thoughtful moments, she said "gentle." My word for it was "fragile." I think that makes so much sense of how a mother would consider a lullaby for their child, and how a child would receive one from their parent.
Bottom line: Music is my church. Making music is my happy. Producing collaborative music is my sacred place.
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| Sammy liked it. |
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