The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  “If you play a B flat, a C, a D flat, which is the same as a C sharp, an F, and an A flat, you have a B flat minor nine chord. Now the C and the C sharp sound good even though they are right next to each other and in the same register. People could learn a Life lesson from Music if they would just choose to see.” He began to sing, “ ‘I can see clearly now the rain is gone.”

  “Johnny Nash,” I responded, recognizing the lyric. "That’s a beautiful song.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Also,” he continued, “in the key of B flat minor, the rule book tells us that we are not allowed to play a C sharp, but when I play it, it sounds good to me. We’re supposed to call it a D flat. Even though they are the same note, we can play one but not the other. It’s all in the name, I guess. Rules!”

  "They can be confusing sometimes,” I added.

  Michael told me that once the rules were thoroughly learned, they could be thoroughly broken. He said that the same was true with life’s rules. (I eventually witnessed him break or bend rules many times. Most of the time I hadn’t even realized what the rule was; I just knew that one or two of them were being broken.)

  He also told me that the beauty of the world could be seen through music. "There is always beauty to be found, and it is necessary to find it in all things and in all people if real change is to be made in this world,” he said. He seemed to think that what we see in life and what we hear in music are simply our choice and that when things start to look grim, that is when we really need to find beauty. I remember his telling me: “It is always easier to build upon this beauty than it is to pretend it is not there and try to create it from scratch.” That is a comment I will never forget.

  I’ve had many music lessons in my life, but never before had I experienced anything quite like Michael. None of my teachers had ever shown life through music in a way that I could clearly understand. Even though I didn’t totally understand Michael, he made things clearer than they had ever appeared before, and he wasn’t finished. He was just getting started.

  He played two more notes on the guitar and asked me how they sounded. Again, they seemed to clash, but this time, I was afraid to say so. He could tell by my expression what I was thinking. Next, he played what sounded like two different notes. I could hear a slight wobble as they vibrated against each other. These two notes sounded better and I told him so. He told me that they were the same two notes. I didn’t believe him.

  "Those were the same notes?” I asked.

  “Absolutely!” he responded. “I just articulated them differently the second time. I also held them a bit longer. Changing the duration allows your ear to hear and respond differently.”

  “Wait a minute!” I said. “You’re telling me that the way you played the notes caused them to sound different? I mean, even the pitch sounded different.”

  Michael didn’t respond. He just walked over to my bookshelf, pulled out another CD, and placed it in the player. With the remote in his hand, he sat down and looked at me in silence. I had no idea what he was up to or what his musical choice would be this time. The anticipation was starting to build. He just sat there, staring at me with his sly grin.

  When he knew that I was uncomfortable enough, he pointed the remote and pressed play. The music that came out of the speakers shocked me. I didn’t know who it was. It was a CD I surely didn’t believe to be part of my collection. It felt like Michael was trying to torture me. The music was . . . well, it was bluegrass!

  “I hate bluegrass music!” I cried out.

  “All the talk about beauty, and that’s all you have to say?” was his response.

  “Well, that’s the first thing that came to mind.”

  “What are you talking about?” Michael asked, pressing pause on the remote.

  “Bluegrass,” I said.

  “No! You are not talking about bluegrass! You are talking about yourself!” Michael leaned forward as he spoke. His dark eyebrows nearly touched each other as he narrowed his gaze.

  “Listen to what you are saying. ‘I hate bluegrass music.’ You are talking about you but blaming your lack of perception on this particular style of Music.”

  Even though he was right, I felt as though he was attacking me, and he didn’t stop. He continued his assault.

  “We do the same with people. All Music, like all people, contains beauty and a soul. For you not to recognize it is not Music’s fault. It is you we are talking about! It is you who does not recognize! There are millions of people who love this Music. Are you here to tell me that all these people are wrong?”

  “I’m not saying that they’re wrong; I just don’t like bluegrass music.”

  “Who are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Me.”

  “Good! More progress.”

  Michael sat back and closed his eyes, smiling as if he’d just won a battle. Without looking, he pushed play and nodded his head at me. I started to pick up my bass so I could play along, but with his eyes still closed, he tucked his long hair behind his right ear and whispered, “Listen. Just listen. ”

  I didn’t know what he wanted me to listen for, but I figured that if I acted like him, maybe I could listen like him. So I leaned back and closed my eyes too.

  After a few minutes, Michael spoke: “ ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky’ by Bill Monroe. He is the father of bluegrass Music. Listen to the bass on this track. Can you play like that?”

  “Of course I can. Country music is easy to play. One— Five—One—Four—, no problem.”

  “First of all, this is bluegrass; there is a difference. It is closely related to country Music, but it is also related to jazz. They’re kissing cousins. You may not hear it yet, but you will one day. Some of the best improvisers on the planet play bluegrass, and playing it may not be as simple as you think.”

  Now, I admit that I hadn’t listened to much bluegrass or country music in the past, so maybe he was right. I couldn’t hear it. But there was one point I really felt he was wrong about. I knew this type of music was easy to play, no matter what he said.

  It only took a few minutes for me to realize that, once again, Michael was right. He introduced me to the nuances of the music by asking me to pay close attention to how the bass player articulated each note in that particular song. There was much more to Mr. Monroe’s music than I’d previously realized. I didn’t know how to feel about that.

  “Notice how each note starts and ends,” he instructed. “Listen to the way he attacks each note and notice whether the notes are long, short, or in between. Recognize the Life of each note. Can you hear the beginning, middle, and end of each one? If he had articulated differently or changed the duration of any note, would that have changed the feel of the song? Listen.”

  Again, Michael sat back and closed his eyes, so I did the same. I tried to pay attention to the life of each note.

  The song was in three-four. I noticed that the bass player was playing whole notes, except that he didn’t let each note ring for its full duration. He would cut them off just before each downbeat. I also realized that if the notes had been any shorter, the song would have had a little more bounce, and if they were any longer, the song would have felt slower.

  The relationship between the slow three-four time signature and Bill’s rhythmic way of singing gave the song an interesting feel. Also, the attack of the acoustic bass felt different than an electric bass would have felt. How the bass player played each note helped dictate the feel of the song. It made me think of how I usually approached my notes. I rarely let them ring. I usually attacked them hard and fast. I thought about each note having a life, as Michael had alluded. Listening to the bass player caused me to realize that I rarely gave my notes enough air. But the most amazing thing was that in allowing myself to listen to Bill Monroe so deeply, I enjoyed his music, if only slightly.

  I opened my eyes and noticed Michael staring at me. Stopping the music, he asked a strange question. “You ever read Horton Hears a Who?”

  I didn�
�t know what that had to do with anything, but understanding that Michael had his own way of teaching, I answered him, “Of course I have. Dr. Seuss.”

  “Do you remember what that poor elephant found on the little speck of dust?”

  "There was a whole civilization living on it,” I answered.

  “Exactly!” he said, pointing at me. “Notes are the same. If you listen closely, you can find a whole world living inside each one. Notes are alive, and like you and me, they need to breathe. The song will dictate how much air is needed. There is no rule hard and fast, but usually, the sharper the attack, the shorter the sustain. The vice versa is also true.

  “Now, here’s what I want you to do this time. Breathe with the Music. Listen to the song one more time and take a breath with each note as the bass player plays. It will help you understand what I am talking about.

  “After that, I want you to play along with the song, breathing with your own bass notes. If you change the length of your notes, you must also change the length of your breath. Do that and pay attention to what it does to you and to Music. Don’t go to sleep tonight until you have done it at least twice. We will continue tomorrow. I will leave my bag here if that’s okay with you.”

  Without waiting for a response, Michael put on his helmet, pulled down the face shield, turned, and walked out the front door, skateboard in hand.

  For a time I just sat there staring at the closed door, reflecting on the many things the strange man had said. I’d already learned so much from him. It was hard to believe that we’d met for the first time earlier that day.

  “Breathe with the Music,” he had instructed. What did he mean? I’d never listened to or played music in such a fashion, but once I did as he’d suggested, things started to change. Breathing with the music caused me to hear it and feel it in a way I never had before. I could actually feel the notes mixing with my heartbeat. It was like a meditation. I don’t know if it was my slow rhythmic breathing or what, but whatever it was helped me to begin to understand Mr. Monroe’s music for the first time, and, I hate to say it, but I liked it.

  That Michael: He was a sneaky character. At least ten minutes had gone by before I realized I was actually learning how to play a bluegrass song. In order to play along while breathing with my notes, I had to learn the music. He tricked me into doing something I would’ve outright refused to do if I’d been asked. I knew that he must’ve been smiling right about then. I was.

  As I got up to go to bed, I saw Michael’s bag lying on the floor as if it had fallen off of the arm of the chair. Sticking halfway out of the bag was a book. I tried to leave it alone, but what I could see of the title made me curious.

  The Science and Art of—I couldn’t see the rest, but I really wanted to. I wasn’t sure whether I should remove the book from his bag or not. I didn’t want to go through his stuff, but the book was already halfway out and my curiosity was getting the best of me; I didn’t know why, but it was. Just peeking at the title wouldn’t be wrong, right? I tried to distract myself by going into the bathroom to brush my teeth, but it didn’t work. The Science and Art of—‘Of what?’ I asked out loud.

  Okay, just a quick look, I told myself. I practically ran from the bathroom to the bag. I guess I was secretly hoping for something different, but the bag was still lying there in the exact same place with the book poking halfway out.

  Michael is so peculiar, I thought, trying to come up with an excuse. I may never see him again anyway. Plus, he might have left it here on purpose, just for me to find. I convinced myself a quick glance would be all right.

  The Science and Art of Tracking, by Tom Brown Jr. I was confused. It was a book on animal and human tracking. I couldn’t quite fathom what Michael was doing with a book about footprints, but it looked interesting. Tracking was an interest that I had held since my childhood days of pretending to be a spy, but I never really learned much about it.

  I am familiar with a trumpet player named Tom Brown, and quite frankly, even though I love his music, I’m not sure if I would’ve read a book about him. But Tom Brown Jr. the tracker? Hmm, let’s see.

  About an hour later, I forced myself to stop reading. Not wanting Michael to know I’d touched his things, I put the book back using my best James Bond spy skills. “He’ll never know,” I whispered to myself as if someone might hear.

  With my mind tired and full, I went to sleep and slept hard, for a little while anyway.

  I awoke to the sound of banging on my front door. I looked at the clock: five fifteen a.m. I don’t know any musician who gets up at five fifteen in the morning, so I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Then I heard his voice.

  “Let me in! Let me in! I can’t find the key.” I could hear him laughing through the door.

  I got up and opened the door. I had to admit that Michael was funny, but I wasn’t going to encourage him by cracking even a faint smile. I gave him my best sleepy look. He didn’t seem to care. He waltzed right in wearing a pair of brown shorts, a forest green shirt, large black boots, and a tan safari hat. Around his waist was a small pack, and he was carrying his skateboard under his left arm.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  I couldn’t imagine going anywhere that early except back to sleep. “Go where?” I asked.

  “Tracking, but we have to move quickly. The sun is just starting to rise, and it will be at the perfect angle soon. Did you read the book?”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t. What book?” I didn’t plan to lie. The words just popped out of my mouth. I also didn’t know what to think. Was he baiting me with the book, or were my spy skills that lacking?

  He looked at me and smiled one of his now-familiar Cheshire cat grins. Picking up a shirt from the floor, he threw it at me and turned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly starting to wake up, I put on the shirt and followed him. “You got room on that board for me?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “It might take longer, but we would see much more,” he responded in all seriousness.

  We hopped in my car and drove west on Interstate 40. Nashville is the type of city that attracts people from all over the country, especially musicians. It’s not too big or too small. This allows people from larger cities, such as Los Angeles or New York, to sell their small homes, move to Nashville, buy larger ones with lots of land, and still not be too far away from city life. I like it because you only have to drive a few minutes to be surrounded by trees.

  I’ve always loved spending time in the woods, but my musical life never allowed me the opportunity. At least, that’s what my excuse had always been. I dreamed of someday owning a log cabin in the woods.

  We drove down a beautiful winding road in Cheatham County that was flanked by rolling hills on the east and the long narrow Harpeth River on the west. The scenery was beautiful at that time of the day. The low morning sun shining through the trees and reflecting off the remaining white oak and hickory leaves filled the air with magic.

  The dark rippling river slithered and twisted like a snake tempting us to take a bite of the forbidden fruit that lay just on the other side. I was instructed to park the car on the right side of the road near one of the bends in the river. Then we walked up a steep, rarely used trail to the top of Mace Bluff.

  Mace Bluff is a tall hill covered in scrub pine and cedar trees that overlook the river. The ground cover—mostly poison ivy—is so thick it acts like a barrier protecting the mountain. Few casual strollers would risk a trek through it.

  At the top of the hill is a low sitting flat rock with a carving in the center. This ancient carving is known as the Mace Bluff Petroglyph. Researchers have wondered about the carving for years but have never come to a conclusion as to what it is. All they know is that its origins are Native American and that it is hundreds of years old. All I know is that the panoramic view from the top of the bluff is breathtaking.