The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  “What do you mean by that?” I asked, losing my imagined control of the conversation.

  “I am a musician!” he answered. He placed his hand on his chest to emphasize his point before gesturing at me. “You are just a bass player. That means you play the bass guitar. A true musician, like me, plays Music and uses particular instruments as tools to do so. I know that Music is inside me and not inside the instrument. This understanding allows me to use any instrument, or no instrument at all, to play my Music. I am a true musician, and one day, you too shall be.”

  He spoke with confidence, and I was trying to find a way to strip him of it.

  “Are you saying that you can play any instrument?” I asked.

  “Of course I can, and so can you! It is this knowing that separates us. A true writer can write using a typewriter, a pen, a pencil, or anything else that he chooses. You wouldn’t call him a pencil writer, would you? Your understanding that the writing utensil is just a tool allows you to see past it and into the truth of what he is—a writer. The story is in the writer, is it not? Or is it in the pencil? Your problem is this: You have been trying to tell your story with a bass guitar instead of through it.”

  I liked what he was saying, and that bothered me. Trying to hold on to my resistance, I struggled to find the holes in his argument. The more I lay there thinking about what he’d said, the more interested I became in Michael and his ideas, and the less interested I became in finding the holes.

  He definitely had a unique way of looking at things. Yes, he had shown up uninvited, and I probably should’ve been upset about that. At first, I was, but suddenly, I wanted more. I wanted to hear him talk. If he could help me become a better bass player, I was ready to let him. Maybe.

  “Do you know what it means to be a bass guitarist?” he asked.

  The question was a strange one. I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t.

  "The bass guitar is the honorable instrument,” he declared.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is understated and underappreciated, yet it plays the most important role. The bass is the link between harmony and rhythm. It is the foundation of a band. It is what all the other instruments stand upon, but it is rarely recognized as that.”

  I struggled between getting sucked in by his words and trying to keep my dominance over the situation. He was winning.

  "The foundation of any building has to be the strongest part,” he continued, “but you will never hear anyone walk into a building and say, ‘My, what a nice foundation.’ Unless the foundation is weak, it will go unnoticed. People will walk all over it and never acknowledge that it is there. The Life of a true bass guitarist is the same.”

  “Wow! That’s pretty cool! I never thought of it that way before.”

  “Why not?” he asked.

  I was disappointed in my outburst. I didn’t want to show my enthusiasm just yet, so I regained my composure and answered more calmly. “I don’t know. I guess no one ever taught me music this way before.”

  "Therein lies your first problem,” he stated.

  “Problem? What do you mean by that?”

  “You still think that you can be taught.”

  Not knowing what to say, I stared at the floor in silence for a long while. The stranger remained quiet as well, allowing me time to digest his words. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. I mean, we’re all taught at some point in our lives, aren’t we? I can remember taking music lessons as a kid, and I definitely had a teacher. I’d even taught music lessons myself when I first moved to town. Realizing, again, that I’d totally lost control of our dialogue, I found myself getting worked up.

  I was reclined on the couch with my bass in my lap, trying to figure out something to say. He was sitting there in front of me in what I would eventually think of as “his chair.” I could tell he was looking directly at me, but I dared not look back. For some reason, I didn’t want him to know how uncomfortable I was.

  Remember: It had just been a few minutes since I was . . . uh . . . practicing. My mind was in a daze, my thoughts were racing, and there was a stranger in my house.

  I reflected on grade school and all my teachers and all the summer music camps I’d attended when I used to play cello. How about all the music books or even the metaphysical books I’d read over the years? They were interesting, but none of them had prepared me for this.

  Neither my mom nor my dad played a musical instrument, but they were very musical, more musical than some musicians I know. They sang in church and there was always a record playing on their stereo at home. They also helped spark my interest by taking me to concerts when I was young and supported my musical interest by offering to pay for lessons if I wanted them. I can’t say they taught me how to play music, but they surely supported my decision to play. Hearing it around the house was such a major part of my childhood that it was like a second language to me.

  “Language, that’s good.” Michael spoke out of the blue, as if reading my thoughts.

  “What?” I replied in disbelief.

  “Language, that’s a good one.”

  “Wait a minute! Can you read—”

  “Music?” he interrupted with a sly smile. “Of course I can. Can’t you?”

  "That’s not what I was gonna say,” I muttered.

  Knowing where I was heading, he steered the conversation by asking, “Is Music a language?”

  “I would say so.”

  "Then why don’t you treat it like one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What language do you speak the best?” he asked.

  “English,” I answered.

  “Are you better at English than you are at Music?”

  “Much!” I answered, not knowing where he was headed.

  “At what age did you get really good at English?”

  “I would say by about age four or five I was fluent.”

  “And at what age did you get really good at Music?”

  “I’m still working on it,” I answered in total seriousness.

  “So it took you only four or five years to get really good at English, but even though you’ve been speaking Music for almost four times as long, you’re still not really good at it yet?”

  “Well, I guess not,” I answered, finally realizing his point. I hadn’t looked at it from that perspective.

  “Why not?” Michael asked.

  “I don’t know why. Maybe I just haven’t practiced enough.” I was frustrated by the question.

  “How much did you practice English?”

  “All the time,” I answered, but then I thought about it. “Well, I didn’t really practice English; I just spoke it a lot.”

  “Bingo!” he replied, "That is why you speak that language naturally.”

  “So, are you saying that I should stop practicing music?” I asked sarcastically, trying to regain some ground.

  “I’m not saying that you should or shouldn’t do anything. I’m just comparing the two languages and your processes of learning them. If Music and English are both languages, then why not apply the process used to get good at one of them to the other?”

  Realizing I’d totally lost my ability to direct the conversation, I finally relaxed and gave in.

  “How do I do that?” I asked.

  “How do you do that?” was his reply.

  I had to think for a minute, but I soon came up with an answer.

  “Well, when I was young, I was surrounded by people who spoke English. I was probably hearing it even before I was born. So, since I’ve heard people speaking English every day of my life, it was easy for me to pick up because it was always around. How’s that?”

  “It’s a start; keep going.”

  “Okay. Because I heard English every day, speaking it came naturally to me.” I was talking more quickly and with more confidence. “It wasn’t something I ever thought about. It wasn’t something I ever really practiced. I just did it. I just listened to it and spoke i
t. And the more I spoke it, the better I got.”

  "That’s brilliant! See, you do understand. I like the part about it coming naturally to you. I must be a good teacher,” he said smiling.

  “Comedian? Yes! Teacher? I’m not so sure,” I retorted, joining in on the fun.

  “How can we apply this approach to Music?” Michael inquired.

  “I’m not so sure,” I answered. “I am around music most of the time. It’s hard to go anywhere without hearing some type of music playing in the background. So that part of it is similar to English, but I know that there’s still something missing. There has to be something else that keeps me from being just as good at music as I am at English.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “Oh, I know. I speak English every day. I’m always talking, but I’m not always playing. I don’t play music every day. If I played my bass every day, I’d be just as good. Is that it?”

  “Did you speak English every day when you were a baby?” he asked.

  “Well, not exactly.” Apparently there was more.

  “Do you need to speak English every day to get better at it?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  "Then what’s missing?”

  “I don’t know.” My frustration grew. “Just tell me.”

  “Jamming!” he stated with a slight nod of his head.

  “What?”

  "Jamming,” he repeated. "That is the missing element. When you were a baby, you were allowed to jam with the English language. From day one, not only were you allowed to jam, you were encouraged to. And better yet, you didn’t just jam; you jammed with professionals. Just about everyone you communicated with when you were a baby was already a master of the English language. And because of that, you are now a master.”

  “A master?” I inquired.

  “A genuine master,” he confirmed. "The only reason you are not called a master is that everyone else is just as good at it as you are. Everyone is a master. Think about it. If you were as good at Music as you are at English, you would surely be considered a master. Would you not?”

  “Oh my God! You’re right!” Another unintended outburst. The words just leapt from my mouth, seemingly of their own free will. What he was saying made so much sense. I was surprised I’d never recognized it before.

  "Thanks for the compliment, but please keep listening,” the stranger continued. "There are only two elements that allowed you to become a master of the English language at such a young age. Only two: being surrounded by it, and jamming with it. That’s it! English came quickly and easily to you, and from what you told me, you were also surrounded by Music, so it must be jamming that makes the difference.

  “Imagine if we allowed beginners to jam with professionals on a daily basis. Do you think it would take them twenty years to get good? Absolutely not! It wouldn’t even take them ten. They would be great by the time they were musically four or five years old.

  “Instead, we keep the beginners in the beginning level class for a few years before we let them move up to the intermediate level class. After a few more years at that level, they may move up to the advanced level class, but they still have to work up through the ranks of that class before they are really considered advanced level players. Once they stay at that level for a few years, we turn them loose, so that they can go pay their dues elsewhere. Think about it. After all these years of training, you still have to pay dues. When it comes to learning a language, what does paying dues mean? How many dues did you have to pay while learning English? ”

  Michael had interesting things to say. Abandoning my need for dominance, I sat up on the couch. The only way I can explain it is that I wanted to get closer to what he was saying. I wanted him to keep talking, all day if he was willing, but he paused as if inviting me to say something.

  “I see your point,” I replied, “but not all of us have access to professional musicians. I can’t just call up Herbie Hancock or Mike Stern and say, ‘Hey, I’m coming over. Wanna jam?’ So what now? What am I supposed to do if I don’t have professionals to play with every day?”

  “You could have chosen to be born into a family of professional musicians,” he answered without a smile, making it hard for me to tell if he was serious or not.

  “It’s too late for that now,” I replied.

  “I guess so. There is always next time. Still, there are professionals you can bring here to you.”

  “Really now? How am I supposed to do that?” I wasn’t following his logic.

  “Who would you like to jam with?” he asked.

  “Well, I’ve always wanted to play with Miles Davis,” I answered with a smile. I was only half joking.

  Placing his skateboard on the floor, he rode over to my bookshelf and pulled out a Miles Davis CD, as if he’d placed it there himself. I didn’t think much about it then. He put the CD in the player, pressed play, and nodded his head toward me.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Play,” he answered.

  “What am I supposed to play?”

  “What is Miles asking you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What is Miles asking me?’ ”

  “I thought you said Music is a language. Are you telling me that you can’t understand what Miles is asking you to play?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I sighed. I was slightly embarrassed by the question.

  He turned off the CD player and picked up my acoustic guitar, which was sitting in the corner being used as a coat rack. The guitar was an old, beat-up, pawn shop special that hadn’t been played, or even tuned, for I don’t know how long. It didn’t even have a brand name. I called it a “Majapan” guitar because it was made in Japan. Years earlier, I had a pickup installed inside, but I rarely plugged it in. That guitar was unplayable, or so I thought.

  He sat down, placed his foot on top of his skateboard, and without the slightest bit of hesitation, began to produce the most amazing sounds. The music that poured out from beneath Michael’s fingers was astounding. It was . . . well . . . it was Miles Davis!

  “Play,” he ordered.

  “What key are you in?” I asked as I picked up my bass.

  Ignoring my question, he looked me straight in the eyes and repeated himself in a stern voice, “Play!”

  I recognized the song right away. It was “So What” from the Kind of Blue album, but I had no clue as to the key he was playing in. I fumbled around for a while until I finally found it, and as soon as I did, Michael stopped playing.

  “Where are you from?” he asked abruptly.

  “Virginia,” I replied.

  Immediately, he started playing again as if he didn’t care about my answer, but this time, he was in a different key.

  “Play!” he instructed again.

  “What key?” I repeated.

  He stopped playing, this time asking me for my shoe size.

  “Nine and a half,” I replied, more than a bit confused.

  “Play!” he commanded in a stronger voice, as he continued strumming the guitar.