I Love Music
By Donna Grant - November 17, 2008
When you live in Brooklyn, NY you pretty much learn how to tune out noise—it’s a survival skill. But I am utterly unable to ignore the sound of music, whether it’s a CD I’ve chosen, or I am being involuntarily serenaded with dancehall, hip hop, gospel, or whatever is filtering from my neighbors’ windows. It’s really a problem when I’m trying to write. My words bump into the melody and I’m lost.
But sixth senses are like that—they don’t bend to your will, and for me music isn’t just about hearing. It’s as much a sense as taste or smell—has been since I was little. I grew up listening to Odetta and Rimsky-Korsakov, Milton Nascimento, The Beatles, John Coltrane, Andre Segovia. . . if it had notes, I’d listen at least a few times. And for me listening isn’t passive. Music evokes a physical reaction. I couldn’t bear the kettle drums that signaled the hunters were lurking in “Peter and the Wolf,” so I’d run and hide until it was safe. The first guitar notes of “Mrs. Robinson” evoke a sweltering summer day. I’m wilted, and bored, legs stuck to the vinyl backseat of our un-air conditioned Volvo and I’m wondering when we’re going to get there. Koo-koo-ka-choo.
In high school I found the instrument that corresponds to my personal vibration—the cello. As soon as I picked it up, and drew the bow across the open ‘D’ string I could feel the note resonate all through me, like it had always been there. It’s been a long time since I played in my high school orchestra, but to this day when I hear the National Anthem, the cello part plays in my head. And is there a hipper riff than the cellos in “Papa Was A Rolling Stone?”
When I go to jazz clubs, I don’t talk, I listen. I’ll take the next train if I encounter a good musician playing in the subway. I’ll bring a book and a blanket and stand in line for concerts in the park. There are frequently musical references in my work. And I can’t keep from bopping my head and tapping my feet to the rhythm of a tune, even if it’s in a language I don’t speak. To borrow a lyric from an O’Jay’s song, “Music is the healing force of the world,” and I can’t imagine my life without it.
But sixth senses are like that—they don’t bend to your will, and for me music isn’t just about hearing. It’s as much a sense as taste or smell—has been since I was little. I grew up listening to Odetta and Rimsky-Korsakov, Milton Nascimento, The Beatles, John Coltrane, Andre Segovia. . . if it had notes, I’d listen at least a few times. And for me listening isn’t passive. Music evokes a physical reaction. I couldn’t bear the kettle drums that signaled the hunters were lurking in “Peter and the Wolf,” so I’d run and hide until it was safe. The first guitar notes of “Mrs. Robinson” evoke a sweltering summer day. I’m wilted, and bored, legs stuck to the vinyl backseat of our un-air conditioned Volvo and I’m wondering when we’re going to get there. Koo-koo-ka-choo.
In high school I found the instrument that corresponds to my personal vibration—the cello. As soon as I picked it up, and drew the bow across the open ‘D’ string I could feel the note resonate all through me, like it had always been there. It’s been a long time since I played in my high school orchestra, but to this day when I hear the National Anthem, the cello part plays in my head. And is there a hipper riff than the cellos in “Papa Was A Rolling Stone?”
When I go to jazz clubs, I don’t talk, I listen. I’ll take the next train if I encounter a good musician playing in the subway. I’ll bring a book and a blanket and stand in line for concerts in the park. There are frequently musical references in my work. And I can’t keep from bopping my head and tapping my feet to the rhythm of a tune, even if it’s in a language I don’t speak. To borrow a lyric from an O’Jay’s song, “Music is the healing force of the world,” and I can’t imagine my life without it.
