Music speaks to the part of the brain language cannot reach, a memory tool that written words inadequately describe. The map is not the territory. Not even the most elaborately notated sheet music can indicate the memories stirred by sound. I sometimes hear a song in my head, and I have been known to dance without music, but those are two very personal things. I can hear the sounds singing to my soul, a rush of blood, the thump of heart valves, the gurgle of internal organs, the rhythm of muscles flexing and relaxing. How does a smile sound? My heels clock the time, fingers tap in synchopation.
I see lyrics printed, written out, typed into columns, some scratch at trapping the essence of a song in our most widely accepted form of preserved memory. I read transcribed music, pages and pages of bars and dots and sweeping slurs and key changes that mean nothing in concentrated silence. I hear recorded music, an amazing acomplishment, thanks to Mister Edison and his wax cylinders, and if I listen closely I can hear the breath of a body long gone. I don't know anyone who hasn't related to a song on the radio, who hasn't at least once found themselves entranced by the layers of sound, by the meanings behind elements within a song. A different part of the brain controls the singing voice, separate and distinct from the speaking voice, which is why even those who stutter can often sing beautifully.
Dancing is the figure, the form, the physical manifestation of the music. I have seen horses dancing in parades, tossing heads and prancing hooves in time with the music tempo, the rider delighted by the animal's expression of joy. To dance is to follow the daydream, to forget the present tense, to focus only on the motion and the sound and the combination of the two, the anticipation of the next musical phrase.
Music is sometimes voluptuous and soft, sometimes hard and muscular, sometimes diaphanous and quicksilver. It travels at different speeds, and with different locomotion; it creeps, rushes, gallops, sails, marches, flows, tears through the night like a train. It brings out tears, joy, rage, love, and it follows the same path as daydreams of memories. Music, like light, like beauty, remains elusive in its definition.
I see lyrics printed, written out, typed into columns, some scratch at trapping the essence of a song in our most widely accepted form of preserved memory. I read transcribed music, pages and pages of bars and dots and sweeping slurs and key changes that mean nothing in concentrated silence. I hear recorded music, an amazing acomplishment, thanks to Mister Edison and his wax cylinders, and if I listen closely I can hear the breath of a body long gone. I don't know anyone who hasn't related to a song on the radio, who hasn't at least once found themselves entranced by the layers of sound, by the meanings behind elements within a song. A different part of the brain controls the singing voice, separate and distinct from the speaking voice, which is why even those who stutter can often sing beautifully.
Dancing is the figure, the form, the physical manifestation of the music. I have seen horses dancing in parades, tossing heads and prancing hooves in time with the music tempo, the rider delighted by the animal's expression of joy. To dance is to follow the daydream, to forget the present tense, to focus only on the motion and the sound and the combination of the two, the anticipation of the next musical phrase.
Music is sometimes voluptuous and soft, sometimes hard and muscular, sometimes diaphanous and quicksilver. It travels at different speeds, and with different locomotion; it creeps, rushes, gallops, sails, marches, flows, tears through the night like a train. It brings out tears, joy, rage, love, and it follows the same path as daydreams of memories. Music, like light, like beauty, remains elusive in its definition.
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