BETWEEN THE NOTES
“If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:
THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
WAS MUSIC”
― Kurt Vonnegut
THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED
FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD
WAS MUSIC”
― Kurt Vonnegut
Music is a possible blessing or a possible curse.
As any failed musician acknowledges, music can provide a tantalising vision of dreams made possible or, it can downgrade all dreams into the realm of what-might-have-been. If only. Only if. You pack away your instrument in the corner of the attic, sing only in the shower and all your insightful lyrics become just empty words scribbled on long-lost sheets of paper. And you wonder why you were given any semblance of creativity in the first place. A cosmic joke or Karmic retribution maybe. You develop an attachment to the Past and to the Future. The Past because that's where the thwarted dreams live and, from where, they still haunt you with accusations of Insufficient Ambition or Ego-powered Over Estimation of one's real talent. The Future because that's where you feel there is still a chance to fulfill all yearnings and where all is possible. The problem is that the only place wherein music can still be an inspiration and guide is ignored: the Present.
As any failed musician acknowledges, music can provide a tantalising vision of dreams made possible or, it can downgrade all dreams into the realm of what-might-have-been. If only. Only if. You pack away your instrument in the corner of the attic, sing only in the shower and all your insightful lyrics become just empty words scribbled on long-lost sheets of paper. And you wonder why you were given any semblance of creativity in the first place. A cosmic joke or Karmic retribution maybe. You develop an attachment to the Past and to the Future. The Past because that's where the thwarted dreams live and, from where, they still haunt you with accusations of Insufficient Ambition or Ego-powered Over Estimation of one's real talent. The Future because that's where you feel there is still a chance to fulfill all yearnings and where all is possible. The problem is that the only place wherein music can still be an inspiration and guide is ignored: the Present.
THE LONG ROAD HOME
Destined to be a child of the 60s, I was swept up, like many others, by the magic inherent in that era. Aurally bombarded by a bewildering palette of creativity, the simple act of tuning in one's radio became a sonic adventure where, within, all was suddenly possible. There was really no choice but to hop on the merry-go-round. Teenage bands, populated by the ever-hopeful, followed.
The teens merged into the 20s. Musical prowess grew but the hungered-for-recognition didn't. Genres were swapped like socks - Blues, Pop, Jazz, Folk, Rockabilly. All destined to fall by the wayside. My 30s arrived. I traveled to America to try my luck. And traveled back without it. Started my own independent Label, Respect Records. And quickly realised independence required hard-to-find capital. Too hard to find. Dreams persisted, personified in another Label, MyMuse Records. Success teased me and then it moved on. The merry-go-round slowed and I disembarked. Now I was exiled to the bedroom with home recorders.
My 50s saw me churning out original music that I hoped one day might fall into the hands of The Patron Saint of the Eternal Dreamer. That hope persisted for a decade . Slowly the truth became self-evident and, in my 60s, I regressed to a man who fiddled with music. Pushing ideas around the bedroom studios of my life. Never serious. Amusing myself. Then came the diagnosis.
Backed up against the wall by fear and doubt, desperately seeking an outlet for the anguish trapped inside. This is where the Music sought me and not the reverse. Where it spoke to me. No more Ego-driven motivation. Just simplicity. Soundscapes & Mantras. Reflections. A voice within the voice. "Sit & play," it said, "and see who comes to visit". When you invite music in to share your life on equal terms and you cease to mistreat it by assigning it unrealistic expectations, then the beauty and inspiration you once sought in your youth now becomes accessible. In the days of dread following my diagnosis I felt an powerful urge to sit quietly in my miniscule studio, guitar in hand, and wait for direction. Direction that I felt strongly would be forthcoming from a presence often hinted at but always on the periphery of everyday consciousness. Music and lyrics flowed.
THE ARRIVAL
I had a long musical career. Many good and lasting friends were introduced to me via our shared passion. Across hundreds of gigs both local and, sometimes, international, I stood on stage, guitar in hand, reveling in the pure joy of playing in a band. Dis-satisfaction always lurked though as reality demanded our attention. It is now obvious that those days were not my time. The Present is the only time. In my studio I find peace, direction, wisdom and balance. None of which I ever found on a Rock n' Roll stage. If you are, in your eyes, a failed musician, then you are mistaken. Music is a gift. It was handed to you. You haven't returned it. That would be rude. You still have that gift somewhere. Don't be haunted by life's illusions. Don't expect or anticipate, Untie the wrapping and enjoy your gift. Look for the space between the notes. Failure is just a word.
“We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.”
― Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Poems of Arthur O'Shaughnessy
The teens merged into the 20s. Musical prowess grew but the hungered-for-recognition didn't. Genres were swapped like socks - Blues, Pop, Jazz, Folk, Rockabilly. All destined to fall by the wayside. My 30s arrived. I traveled to America to try my luck. And traveled back without it. Started my own independent Label, Respect Records. And quickly realised independence required hard-to-find capital. Too hard to find. Dreams persisted, personified in another Label, MyMuse Records. Success teased me and then it moved on. The merry-go-round slowed and I disembarked. Now I was exiled to the bedroom with home recorders.
My 50s saw me churning out original music that I hoped one day might fall into the hands of The Patron Saint of the Eternal Dreamer. That hope persisted for a decade . Slowly the truth became self-evident and, in my 60s, I regressed to a man who fiddled with music. Pushing ideas around the bedroom studios of my life. Never serious. Amusing myself. Then came the diagnosis.
Backed up against the wall by fear and doubt, desperately seeking an outlet for the anguish trapped inside. This is where the Music sought me and not the reverse. Where it spoke to me. No more Ego-driven motivation. Just simplicity. Soundscapes & Mantras. Reflections. A voice within the voice. "Sit & play," it said, "and see who comes to visit". When you invite music in to share your life on equal terms and you cease to mistreat it by assigning it unrealistic expectations, then the beauty and inspiration you once sought in your youth now becomes accessible. In the days of dread following my diagnosis I felt an powerful urge to sit quietly in my miniscule studio, guitar in hand, and wait for direction. Direction that I felt strongly would be forthcoming from a presence often hinted at but always on the periphery of everyday consciousness. Music and lyrics flowed.
THE ARRIVAL
I had a long musical career. Many good and lasting friends were introduced to me via our shared passion. Across hundreds of gigs both local and, sometimes, international, I stood on stage, guitar in hand, reveling in the pure joy of playing in a band. Dis-satisfaction always lurked though as reality demanded our attention. It is now obvious that those days were not my time. The Present is the only time. In my studio I find peace, direction, wisdom and balance. None of which I ever found on a Rock n' Roll stage. If you are, in your eyes, a failed musician, then you are mistaken. Music is a gift. It was handed to you. You haven't returned it. That would be rude. You still have that gift somewhere. Don't be haunted by life's illusions. Don't expect or anticipate, Untie the wrapping and enjoy your gift. Look for the space between the notes. Failure is just a word.
“We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.”
― Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Poems of Arthur O'Shaughnessy
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