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Dark clouds may hang on me sometimes.

"Music was fun," he said. "And it still is." The spotlight came down on him with an almost awkward intensity. "That is a bright light." He added. He talked more about how grateful he was to have been able to build a career out of music. Then he explained jazz. "Improvisation isn't just noodling around. And I know people that make a career out of that. It's a language. Jazz is a language just like any other language." His speaking interludes verged on rambling, but ultimately it all clicked. It resonated. He was a musician speaking to musicians.

Bill Evans was amazing. He was one of my idols as a jazz musician. He was a classical clarinet player turned jazz saxophonist and I aspired to be like him. Seeing him on stage was incredible. He just played and played. One of my friends stood up and traded solos with him. I was jealous. After the concert, as I stood talking to a group of friends, he walked right in front of me. My heart skipped a beat. I got an autograph and hugged him. It was a good night.

But for as great as the concert was, it turned something on in my head that had been turned off a while ago. Seeing him on stage and seeing the band play and hearing his interjections all processed at the same time when they started the vocal tune. "What are you doing the rest of your life?" She sang.

And I panicked.

I don't know what I'm doing. I have no idea what I'm doing. At all. "What is the end plan of all this? Of everything?" My friend's mom asked me. "I... have no idea." I answered. It's a giant masquerade. A huge fake out. We don't get to do what we really want. We don't. We don't get to be ourselves. We have to pretend that we're other people that like to do other things. Because that's what other people want us to do. Parents and friends influence you this way or that way or discourage you from things until you become some kind of twisted up mess. And you aren't yourself. I am not myself. I'm trying to convince myself I'm someone else. Do I really want to be a scientist? A geologist? A doctor? Or have other people convinced me that I do?

Mr. Taylor shook our hands in the lobby. "Things are going well for you guys?" "Yep." We answered. "You know these guys still get together when they're all home and jam?" Mrs. Davis told him. He smiled and shook his head. "Once it's in your blood," he said. "You can't get it out. And that's the way it should be. You can't ever get away from the music."

I'm a musician pretending to be everything else. Trying to be anyone except me. What the fuck am I doing? Where did the music go?

Comments

Cam said…
Glad you enjoyed it as much as I did. The music didn't go anywhere, you just pushed it aside.
May 17, 2009 at 12:13 AM
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