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Wild Instruments
15 June 2008 19:20There are forests of wild instruments.
Clarinets wrap themselves around tree branches and lie in wait for inchworm harmonicas. Vast herds of wild piano roam noisily between grazing clearings. French-horn trees split open their cocoon pods to reveal the shining brass of their young. The fresh brass twitches with new, scared notes. The male fiddle bows court the female fiddles with outrageous dances.
Tubas float lazily down the river like hippos. Bassoons haunt the surface like swans before diving down to the bottom to feed on the silty riverbed. The bongo trees create a cacophony when it rains. Every gust of wind sends the ghosts of notes up through the reed-bones of instrument’s mouths.
Wild instruments have no concept of structure, harmony or tempo. They sing wildly with abandon to express hunger, sadness, challenge or attraction. They are rarely quiet. They even moan or whistle in their sleep. It is the calls of the instruments in the wild that are the bane of music teachers but a delight to children.
The wild instruments must be caught and tamed before they are put in stores, purchased like slaves, and given to students.
The hunters have earplugs. There are tales of hunters being entranced by the proto-music and wandering off into the jungle while shedding clothing.
The instruments must be harnessed, polished, and taught the rigid structure of 4/4 time, quarter notes, and rests. The must be trained to follow the black lines on the page. They must be broken and made obedient.
There is a true moment between instrument and human player that happens only in two instances. The first is when the human player has no concept of how to play the instrument and fires it up for the first few times. At that point, there is a synergy between player and instrument. That is the instrument’s true voice.
The second moment comes near the end of a professional’s career when he’s had the same instrument for many years. His mastery of music is so complete that his addiction to form is waning. He recognizes the greater truth of notes not played. He plays the instrument in a solo that has no structure to speak of. It couldn’t even be called jazz. That is also the instrument’s true voice.
That is the full circle moment. This is the gift of a wild instrument.
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Clarinets wrap themselves around tree branches and lie in wait for inchworm harmonicas. Vast herds of wild piano roam noisily between grazing clearings. French-horn trees split open their cocoon pods to reveal the shining brass of their young. The fresh brass twitches with new, scared notes. The male fiddle bows court the female fiddles with outrageous dances.
Tubas float lazily down the river like hippos. Bassoons haunt the surface like swans before diving down to the bottom to feed on the silty riverbed. The bongo trees create a cacophony when it rains. Every gust of wind sends the ghosts of notes up through the reed-bones of instrument’s mouths.
Wild instruments have no concept of structure, harmony or tempo. They sing wildly with abandon to express hunger, sadness, challenge or attraction. They are rarely quiet. They even moan or whistle in their sleep. It is the calls of the instruments in the wild that are the bane of music teachers but a delight to children.
The wild instruments must be caught and tamed before they are put in stores, purchased like slaves, and given to students.
The hunters have earplugs. There are tales of hunters being entranced by the proto-music and wandering off into the jungle while shedding clothing.
The instruments must be harnessed, polished, and taught the rigid structure of 4/4 time, quarter notes, and rests. The must be trained to follow the black lines on the page. They must be broken and made obedient.
There is a true moment between instrument and human player that happens only in two instances. The first is when the human player has no concept of how to play the instrument and fires it up for the first few times. At that point, there is a synergy between player and instrument. That is the instrument’s true voice.
The second moment comes near the end of a professional’s career when he’s had the same instrument for many years. His mastery of music is so complete that his addiction to form is waning. He recognizes the greater truth of notes not played. He plays the instrument in a solo that has no structure to speak of. It couldn’t even be called jazz. That is also the instrument’s true voice.
That is the full circle moment. This is the gift of a wild instrument.
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