The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  Having an opinion without being opinionated was a gift of his. How to do that remains a mystery to me. I know now that he just wanted me to think, to use my brain.

  Answering my questions with a question was an important part of his teaching method. That frustrated me many times, but it made me think for myself. I’m sure that’s all he wanted. I’m not sure if he ever outright lied to me, but I know that he frequently stretched the truth. Whenever I questioned him about it, he would answer with, “Truth? What is truth? And tell me, what importance does truth have anyway? Did you learn from the experience? Now, that is important. And by the way, if I always tell you the truth, you might start to believe me.”

  That confused me, as I always thought I was supposed to believe my teachers. I guess I was wrong. I can still see the sly smile on his face every time he knew he was totally confusing me.

  Confusion seemed to be my natural state when I was with him, especially in the beginning. I recall him saying, “Music, like Life, and like you, is one entity expressing itself through its differences.” My puzzled look let him know that I didn’t understand. “Music is one thing,” he continued, “but it wouldn’t exist without its parts. You couldn’t play a chord without different notes. Change a note, change the chord. Life is no different, and neither are you. You are expressing yourself in Life by choosing different notes all the time. Learn to be conscious of your note choices and Life will respond with the proper chord or, in other words, Life will respond accordingly.” I didn’t know what to say. He just smiled.

  He loved to laugh. I remember telling him about an invention I once saw called The Lick Blocker. It was a flat piece of board that attached to your wrist while you played guitar. It was supposed to block the audience from being able to view your hand, thus keeping them from being able to steal your licks. He laughed for a full ten minutes when I told him about that one. “I’m glad I ain’t normal,” he would often say.

  “Sharing is one of the most important tools needed for personal growth,” he once told me, also stating that many people never come to understand that point. He said that many of us try to hoard our knowledge in order to stay ahead of everyone else. I understood that completely because I used to use the same method. Somehow, I think he knew that.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was learning more than just music. We rarely talked about it, but in the few days that we were together, he taught me more about life than anyone else ever has. “Music, Life, Life, Music: What’s the difference?” I could hear him saying.

  I remember criticizing him for leaving my car door unlocked. He asked me if I believed my mother whenever she would tell me that “all things happen for a reason.” I told him that I did. “Listen to her, then,” he responded. “Change your vibes. Stop creating reasons for your car to get broken into.” I had to think about that one for awhile.

  Vibrations were an important concept to him. I guess ‘concept’ is not the best word to use. I could tell that vibrations were important to him because he talked about them as if they were alive. His approach to music was the same, and he came alive whenever he talked about it. He seemed to think that all things were made up of vibrations, especially music.

  “All things are in motion,” he once told me, “and although a thing may appear to be stationary, it is always moving. This motion may change, but it will never cease. All Music ever played is still playing.” I’d never thought of it like that. Whenever he mentioned the word “Music,” he said it with a specific clarity I didn’t have. It was as if I could feel the truth of the word vibrate whenever he spoke it.

  He even told me that thoughts were vibrations. I had to think about that one for a long time too. I had no way of disproving him, and believe me, I would’ve if I could’ve, but when I thought about the way a lie detector works, measuring subtle changes in vibrations from the mind and body, I figured that he might have a point. He always had a point.

  When I asked how he knew all that stuff, his immediate response surprised me. “A better question is: How come you don’t know it? All knowledge that ever existed, or ever will exist, is already out there in the air. All you need to do is tune in to what you want to know.”

  He loved to talk about the power of the mind. “All things have a mind,” he would often say. “Even an acorn holds, in its mind, a picture of the whole tree. If this were not true, how could the tree ever show up? Do you think that your mind is any less powerful than an acorn’s? Pictures or Music held in the human mind are bound to come forth. They have to! That is the law! Learning to use the mind is the key to all possibilities. ”

  His bold statements kept my mind spinning. I guess he was secretly teaching me how to use my mind because he never asked me to write anything down. Years passed before I ever realized that I’d taken no notes on what he’d said, or even one photograph of the man. There was nothing except my memory to document any of the experiences I’m about to relate. And speaking of my memory—well, I forgot what I was gonna say.

  The only physical evidence that remains from his visit are twelve handwritten measures of music. He quickly wrote them out one night while we were playing together at my house. He said that they were a gift from Music. At first, I thought that he meant to say, “a gift of music,” but he always said what he meant. The measures were supposed to contain all of the elements he’d been showing me. We played those few measures together as a duet, but he said that, one day, I would be able to play the whole piece by myself. I’m still waiting for that day. I’ve never shown it to anyone. Most people would just say that I wrote it, and maybe I did.

  I don’t know what happened, but one day, I just decided to write the whole story down for myself. It was while I was writing these notes that I was convinced, by some unknown force, to share this experience with you. He would’ve said that I convinced myself, but I’m sure it was his voice that kept interrupting my thoughts asking, “Who are you writing this for?” I’m still unsure what the answer to that question is, but since you’re reading my words, maybe I’m writing them specifically for you.

  Like me, you may be wondering who this guy really was, where he came from, and where he is now. I don’t know if I can accurately answer any of those questions. Sometimes I think that he came from another planet. Maybe he was a wandering, retired college professor or even a mystic from the Himalayas. He’s probably roaming around somewhere searching for his next impressionable victim, someone else’s mind to screw around with.

  Maybe all the above is true. I’ve learned not to rule out any possibilities. The one thing I know for sure is that what he taught me, no, showed me, about Music and Life is as refreshing to me now as it was when I was hearing it all for the first time.

  So, in following his example, I will share my experience with you. Once it enters your mind, you’re on your own. What you do with it is up to you. I won’t promise you complete accuracy or complete honesty, and don’t waste your time trying to figure out which part is truth and which is not. It’s what you get out of it that’s important. “Truth is your decision anyway.” And as he told me over and over again: “I want you to think for yourself.”

  “Boy, do I have a lot to learn!”

  THE FIRST MEASURE

  Groove

  You should never lose the groove

  in order to find a note.

  I’d been working in the Nashville music scene for many years and not once had I seen him. I was a known player around town and had played I in many bands and no one had ever mentioned his name. Although I hoped to make a decent living playing music, keeping my head above water on a consistent level was always a struggle, and the present struggle was rapidly getting the best of me. Maybe that’s what brought him out.

  I was out of work but determined not to take a job waiting tables like so many musicians in town were forced to do. My landlord had just called to remind me that the end of the month was only a few days away, and with no gigs lined up, I was in no rush to return his call. M
y girlfriend, well, no need to lie about that; I didn’t have one.

  As much as I tried, I could never seem to break into the recording session scene. The few sessions I’d done never generated any return calls, and whenever I lost a gig with a club band, I rarely knew why. I was a good bass player—not the best, but good—so I couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t want me in his band.

  Without a steady gig, and not knowing what to do, I decided to start practicing more. I didn’t like practicing (and still don’t), but I knew that I had to change something. It was either magically get better, alter my playing style, or move to another town and start all over. Realizing the gravity of my situation, I decided to practice.

  Did I mention that I hate practicing? I never know what to practice or why I’m practicing it. I also get sleepy in the middle of the process.

  So there I was at home, painstakingly working on scales and modes and not knowing why. I just knew that my previous teachers had told me to do so. All the books I’d ever read said the same thing, so that’s what I was doing.

  I was at my lowest point emotionally because I wasn’t getting anywhere with my playing and I wasn’t satisfied with my current playing situation. My home life and my love life, well, my whole life in general, wasn’t in the best of shape.

  The rain beating down on the metal siding of my duplex, coupled with the monotony of playing scales, was lulling me to sleep. It was during one of my sleeping sessions, I mean practice sessions, that I first met him; or, more accurately, when he first showed up. And that is exactly what he did. He showed up, uninvited! At least, I thought he was uninvited. He had a different story. He said that I’d actually called him. I’m still confused by that statement, but somehow, for some reason, there he was in my house.

  I have no idea how long the stranger had been standing there looking down on me. The fact that he was completely dry when it was raining outside made me wonder if he’d been there awhile. The strangest part of all is that . . . I didn’t want him to leave.

  From my position on the couch, he appeared quite tall and mysterious. He was wearing a blue NASA-style jumpsuit and a black motorcycle helmet. And even though his eyes were hidden, I could feel them penetrating deep into my mind as though he was looking for the proper place to begin.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked, startled, half asleep, and wondering why I wasn’t angry at his intrusion.

  “You asked me to come.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how’d you get in here? Who let you in?”

  “You did.”

  “Oh really! Did I give you a key?”

  “I don’t need a key.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am your teacher.”

  “My teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “My teacher of what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Well, then, what are you supposed to teach me?”

  “What do you want to learn?”

  “Lots of things. What can you teach me?”

  “Nothing!”

  “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

  “Exactly that, nothing.”

  This was typical of conversations to come, but at that time, I didn’t know what to make of him and I needed a straightforward answer.

  “You have to do better than that. You showed up in my house unannounced; I think I deserve some kind of explanation. ”

  Tilting his head, he looked at me through the face shield of his helmet and replied, “I teach nothing because there is nothing to be taught. You already know everything you need to know, but you asked me to come, so here I am.”

  “But you said that you’re my teacher.”

  “Yes, I did, but try to understand. ‘Teacher’ is just a title. I cannot teach you because no one can teach another person anything.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You can only teach yourself. Until we live in a day where I can physically implant knowledge into your head, I can teach you nothing. I can only show you things.”

  “What can you ‘show’ me?”

  “Anything.”

  “Show me everything then,” I replied.

  "That would take a while. It might be easier if we pick a subject.”

  “Okay, how about music?”

  “Perfect! Music! Shall we begin?”

  I didn’t know if I was ready to begin anything with this character. I already told you he was wearing a blue jumpsuit and a black motorcycle helmet (yes, he was still wearing the helmet), but did I mention that he was carrying a skateboard under his left arm and a burlap bag over his shoulder? I imagined him riding his skateboard down the street, through the rain, in his getup.

  I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I also couldn’t tell if he was really serious or not. For all I knew, he could’ve been there to rob me. But I didn’t think so. There was a lot I didn’t know, but I decided to play along anyway. There was an intriguing quality about him, and I wanted to know more.

  “Wait a minute. If you’re not a teacher, what are you? What should I call you?”

  “Michael. Call me Michael,” he answered as he removed his helmet and offered me his hand.

  I remember his bright blue eyes as hypnotic. They had an immediate effect on me. Somehow, I sensed they could see beneath the surface, and I was fearful of what he might uncover. I struggled to stay in control.

  Not bothering to move from my reclined position on the couch, I allowed his hand to dangle in the air. Asserting what I thought was dominance, I responded in a cocky tone, “Okay, Michael, what can you teach me about music?”

  “Nothing. I already told you that,” he answered, retracting his hand. “I tried teaching many times before. Once as an Apache medicine man in New Jersey and twice as a Yogi in India. I even tried teaching while flying biplanes in Illinois. This time around, I am living the laws of Music. Some may call me a teacher, but I don’t teach; I show.”

  This guy was full of . . . well, something. I couldn’t quite make him out. Is this a joke? I thought. Is he an actor? He said that he is living the ’laws of Music.’ What does that mean? Music has rules, that I know, but laws? It’s not like we’re talking about the law of gravity or the speed of light or—

  “Science,” he commented, interrupting my thoughts. “Music is bigger than you think.”

  “Science,” I said to myself. That’s exactly what I was gonna say. How did he do that? Coincidence? Must’ve been.

  “Mu,” he continued, “is an ancient word for ‘mother,’ and sic is just an abbreviation for the word ‘science.’ So, put together, Music means ‘the mother of all sciences.’ So you see, Music is important. I can show this science to you if you’d like. Is it something you would like to see?”

  Even though he was talking like a crazy man, he had my undivided attention. But I didn’t want to give in too soon. I also figured that since it was my house, I should be the one asking the questions. I reclined even more and laced my fingers behind my head. Next, I put my legs in a crossed position and tried to act cool. He gave a slight smile as if he was ready to counter my every move.

  “What instrument do you play?” I asked.

  He turned and took a seat in the chair across from me. Laying his skateboard in his lap, he tucked his hair behind his right ear and took a breath before responding.

  “I play Music, not instruments.”