My dad used to call some people odd ducks, but he would finish with, it takes all kinds. On that vein, one question I ask myself often is, how can people be satisfied with listening to music and not playing it themselves?
I used
to listen to music often. The same song, over and over. I started with 45 RPM
vinyl records in my parent’s basement and moved on to blaring new and
innovative pop music from my dorm room in 1970. My next phase was headsets and albums
on repeat as my young children slept. I so wanted to go hear live music but I
stayed home with them.
I’ve
played piano since I was seven, and the violin briefly and badly, but my true
favorite is singing. I love it all so much, and I want to ask everyone I know,
why don’t you play an instrument?
On my
long drive back from Vermont last week, I realized the answer was that
listening and playing put me into the exact same float zone of pleasure. They
aren’t disparate. They’re like my psychic abilities, where I put myself into
another dimension and my body is not important. My life becomes the song.
That
question is now solved for me. Listening and playing music are about pleasure
and the release of reality, to enter another realm that is just as real and often
easier.
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