The power of music

The right song at the right moment.

Having been a part time working musician for a number of years has brought home the deepest meaning of the transformative nature of music at times. I used to play a number of the local small venues ‘back in the day’, from ‘dank old man bars’, county fairs, backyard BBQs, coffee shops, dinner gigs, etc. Playing music was deeply therapeutic for me, and I think there’s a lot of people who can understand that.

Naturally, there are times when you play half empty places with an uncaring audience and there are times when the house is full, you’re really in the pocket of the groove, and the place is jumping. Whether it’s a room full of drunks at a bar just dancing to the rhythm or a quiet dinner crowd hanging on every word, connecting with different types of audiences is its own skill.

At no point would anyone call me a virtuoso player or great singer, but perhaps it is for that reason that its easier to set aside ego and just ‘let go’ and have a great time.

Uncomplicated. Unsophisticated. Straight up performance for a good time, and ‘reading the room’ is very helpful.

But as much as getting a room hopping with folks and raising the energy is a rush, the true transformative nature of music has been driven home to me more profoundly in the cases where I’ve borne witness to how it affects individuals; sometimes at a gig, sometimes just one on one. I have been, at times, deeply moved and incredibly lucky.

These are several instances that I recall.

My friend Carlos and I took a long car trip to visit someone for an overnight. She was inclined to have a lot of house guests over on her isolated place where we would fill her home with life and laughter. Camping on her property, crashing on floors or couches as best as we could cram in, and have a great time of it. She was in her 70s, and the people were of all ages. Like an extended tribal ‘family’ gathering of trusted friends.

Carlos and I pulled up the long driveway and the place looked deserted. The group was off on some side quest somewhere and a long elderly figure was sitting on the porch. Carlos said “That’s Rosemary, she’s a pistol. She’ll either love you or hate you but makes no bones about which it is.” He shouldered an overnight bag, and so did I along with a guitar. We were tired from the road and trying to stretch a bit as we approached. I could see Rosemary was of great age, but true to Carlos’ insinuation that she was inclined to be ‘direct’, her first words to me as she nodded to my guitar was “So … can you play that thing or what?”

Sensing that I shouldn’t show fear, I simply stated “As a matter of fact, I can.”

“Well get to it.”

Seeing as how she was ‘of an age’, I reached back to a tune from 1945. “It’s Been a Long, Long, Time.” A warm WWII era ballad. I played as best as I was able, she smiled warmly, and said “Did you know that was my husband Abe and my song?”

Having recently lost her husband, a decorated WWII vet now buried in Arlington, but feeling warm and wonderfully lost in memory, we talked for quite some time about he and her and their time together. I would later witness her being ‘tough’ with thems that she didn’t like, but we were fast friends from that moment on.

In a another instance I recall, there was this awful little bar we used to play. One Friday night a month, small combo doing old rock and roll, blues, and whatever we could think of that cooked. No fancy stage clothes, we’d roll in after work and SQUEEZE a wee drum set and PA equipment into a tiny place. The patrons were a few dank old men, and younger people this side or that of about ten years younger. These were the types of people that the OTHER bars in town wouldn’t let in because they were troublemakers. This was also the time when the economy LAST tanked, so no one could afford lavish get aways, or fancy dinners, or anything much outside of this very blue-collar town. But people COULD afford a mini vacation of walking down to the local bar to have a few drinks and hear some music.

It was the kind of place where, as we were setting up, a regular might drift in, see us, and say “Oh, YOU’RE playing tonight? COOL!” and that was a good feeling. As much as we were playing for ourselves, we were there for them.

Bit of a novelty, but we cobbled together a fun acoustic version of “War Pigs”. Considering that you’re opening a tune with a slow, hard struck E chord, but on acoustic, the crowd would just listen without quite knowing what was coming. But if on that first break, if you peel the first line of lyrics with confident delivery, the crowd knows what’s what immediately and join in with enthusiasm.

They LOVED it. As sloppy and unserious as it was, they loved it. We played it as a set closer before a break and as soon as we announced that we were taking ten or fifteen minutes, a man pushed his way to the front and got in my face. He wasn’t drunk. He was VERY drunk. Although initially concerned, I sensed he meant no ill will, and above the din, he was shouting at me in ‘drunkese’. Between the noise and slurring, I had to have his poor fellow repeat himself about three times, but this man said to me “I’m a better person because I came out to hear your band play.”

Wow. I am hard pressed to think of a higher compliment! It was release. All that these folks needed was a release and for it all to be taken not so seriously.

And then there was the time I was playing a coffee house type gig. These are different. Your audience is stone sober, the pace is slower, and you’re usually playing along and acoustic. While this can make some folks nervous, I loved it! Was easier to pull out ballads, tell stories, and connect more intimately with an audience. Plus, let’s face it, there less equipment to haul out!

This gig in particular saw a number of friends and acquaintances turn up. That’s pretty cool, because you know you have some support! At some moment, I decided the ‘room’ was right for a ballad, and I played Loch Lomond”. If you know the story behind the lyrics, then you already know it’s a tragic tune.

But as I am playing, a woman sitting in front whom I knew somewhat took to crying. I don’t mean her eyes were tearing up, I mean she was UGLY crying, and a friend or two around her were putting an arm around her. I didn’t know WHAT to do! I mean, I know I can sing emotionally if the notion takes me, but I felt SO BAD! Do I stop the song? That might’ve made it worse, so I decided to finish the song then take a set break.

After I finished, I went straight to her. Through her tears she said to me that her husband recently died from a brain tumor, this was her first night out since he passed several weeks before, and that was his favorite song. Being a tragic song of love and loss, no wonder she took to crying!

I started to profusely apologize! I had stepped over to check on her, and after hearing the story, I was devastated. But then she said the most astounding thing to me. She said, “Thank you.”

She said, “Thank you.” And explained that she NEEDED that more than she realized. As if connecting with the song in that moment allowed her to release all that grief she had been holding tightly onto.

I still felt ‘some kind of way’ and opened my next set with some happier material, but I am deep in my feels just recalling this now, and how the right song in the right moment can stir such a reaction.

On the flip side, I used to play LONG gigs of Irish music on St. Patrick’s Day. I would play about seven hours straight until my fingers were sore and my voice gone.

These were always family places, not bars. Places where to celebrate the day, folks would bring their families for dinner and a few drinks to celebrate the day and their heritage. It was a wonderful gig where I was able to play whole sets of music, I wouldn’t otherwise get the chance to play! Highway man songs, rebel song, emigration songs, crushing ballads, the whole gamut, all with banter back and forth between that band the audience, and I about the day, the tunes, and the experience of our Irish heritage.

While I don’t recall a specific song, the best feeling came whenever we were playing the right song in the right mood. I would look out and see grandfathers holding their small grandchildren on their laps gently singing along into the children’s ears each lyric with love, renewing for another generation the stories of a people. My heart was always so filled.

Perhaps my earliest and strongest memory is more personal.

My grandmother, as she aged, began to suffer the ravages of senile dementia. In my early 20s, my mom would bring her around to spend the time with us. My grandmother, this woman who used to take me canoeing on the lake or baked my favorite cookies, was now unable to hold much of a thought and would sit at the kitchen table trying to make sense of the world around her. It is with a sense of relief that she knew who both my mom and I were, loved and was loved. The only solace I can take from that time.

One day, I was in the next room trying to teach myself an old song. “Ghost Riders in the Sky.” A classic ‘ghost story’ type tune made most famous by an old crooner Vaughn Monroe. I’d sing and play a bit, stop, make a few notes about the lyrics or chords, and carry on.

I heard her voice call from the kitchen, and she seldom at this point ‘called out’ over anything. I stopped, walked in, and her face was ALIGHT! She said with just a bit of restrained excitement “Oh, that’s Vaughn Monroe!” and beamed at me and my feeble attempts to play the song.

Just that flash on her face revealed to me not the aged old woman locked in the fetters of age, nor even the elderly woman as she was when I was small who used to love spending the time on the lake with me exploring hidden coves, but her face was that of a very young woman in the memory of who she was and how she felt listening to singer in her youth and dreaming a young woman’s dreams. I remembered in that moment that she was ever so much more than just a kindly old woman who was the grandmother I loved, but a woman with a full life of experiences. Even as these were slipping away from her, this one song in the one moment gave back to her a moment’s peace of the satisfaction of her life. I must’ve sung it to her a half a dozen times over that day.

However much I feel about music and how it’s helped me greatly in all of my life’s stages and find myself equally grateful for how I’ve been able to share that over the years. I am honored. I am moved. I am unable to express it as I should like.

Fill your home with music. Fill your family and friends with music. Fill your heart with music. Fill your life with music.