The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  After the appropriate amount of time, I started bringing the volume back up. Again, Ralph followed. As we executed the perfect crescendo, I started walking down the scale notes of the song until I landed firmly on the root and resumed the original groove in prodigious fashion. I could feel the effect of what was happening.

  Everyone in the room burst into thunderous applause, including the waitresses and bartenders. In between chords, Michael gave me a shot in the arm to show his approval. He was smiling heavily at me. The rest of the audience continued clapping and cheering for the sax player who was more inspired than he’d been all night. He soloed for two more choruses and you could almost see the joy coming through his skin.

  The audience was leaving the bar to fill the seats up front. They were listening, they were on our side, and the band felt it. The rest of the night was one of the best I’ve had in Nashville. I felt as if it was the start of something good.

  Once the gig was over, a lady named Jonell came over and told me that she liked my playing. I’d noticed her in the club but didn’t know who she was. She was a beautiful, short, auburn-haired lady who looked like she could hold her own, somewhat of a cross between Janis Joplin and Bonnie Raitt. She mentioned that she was looking for a bass player to sub in her band for a few nights. I told her that I was available, and we exchanged numbers. Later Michael told me that she was one of the best singers in the country. I made a mental note to contact her sooner rather than later.

  I hadn’t felt so good in ages, but I also felt that I owed it all to Michael. When I mentioned that to him, he refused all credit.

  “Twenty years from now,” he said, “this knowledge will be looked upon as your own. Therefore, it should be looked upon now as your own.”

  “But this gig wouldn’t have happened this way if it weren’t for you,” I told him. “I don’t think it would’ve happened at all if it weren’t for you. So I thank you for it.”

  "Thank me all you want, but don’t give me credit for what you’ve done. You played well tonight, and it is you I thank.”

  "Thank me for what?” I asked.

  “For making me proud,” he answered.

  It almost sounded cliché, but it touched me deeply, for I could tell that he was sincere. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and it didn’t seem quite appropriate to give him a hug in front of the guys, so I just answered, “You’re welcome.”

  We walked over to the bar where the other band members were sitting. Although they had packed up their equipment, they couldn’t leave; they were still energized from the gig. Oh yeah, we were also still waiting for the owner to pay us.

  The whole band was excited. They commented on how much they enjoyed playing with Michael and me. Ralph told me that he would make sure Cliff knew how well we had done. That made me feel great, and I hoped it meant more gigs.

  The sax player apologized to Michael for his earlier attitude and told him that he hoped to play with him again sometime. Michael thanked him and suggested that he remember to use his mind, not just his fingers. Michael glanced at me and winked.

  Sometime later, I played another gig with the same horn player. After doing his usual warm-up routine, I saw him take a seat in the corner and close his eyes. Using his mind. Michael had a way of influencing everybody he came in contact with.

  Once we got paid, we noticed Michael was nowhere to be found. I let them know that I would probably be seeing him in the morning. His money was given to me to pass on to him. I was accustomed to Michael showing up unexpectedly, but it was strange for him to disappear in such a fashion. Since we hadn’t arrived together, I decided not to worry about him and walked to my car. As I arrived, I found Michael sitting on the hood.

  “I knew you wouldn’t take it if I gave it to you, so I allowed them to give it to you,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” he answered.

  “What? I’m not taking your money. It’s for you.”

  “I don’t need it; you do. Plus, it’s already in your pocket. Keep it; you earned it tonight. If I ever need it, I know where you live.”

  “I can’t do that,” I told him.

  “Listen, at this point in my journey, Music is Life, and I do not need money to play it or live it. Money is not something I play for anymore. It used to be at one time, but now I play for other reasons. Tonight, I played for you. And the way that you played, you’ve already paid me well.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. "Thank you, Michael. You are incredible.”

  “No, I am better than that!” He smiled, turned, and walked away.

  I longed to be at his level. As strange as he was, he was the most real person I knew. I couldn’t imagine anyone else who would’ve done for me what he had done. I knew that he was sincere about everything he’d said, and it touched me deeply on many different levels.

  "That is true dynamics,” I whispered to myself.

  Feeling emotional, I watched him ride off into the moonlight—on his skateboard.

  MEASURE SEVEN

  Rhythm/Tempo

  If you pay attention correctly,

  it won’t matter if you’re in another room or in

  another state, you’ll still be able to feel the pulse.

  I woke up with a headache. Trying to assimilate all the new knowledge was taxing my brain. Although I was tired, sleep had eluded me for the majority of the night. I was so excited about what I was learning that I couldn’t get it off my mind. Anytime Michael introduced a new idea, it sparked another one. This new idea would then spark yet another one, and so on. My brain, not wanting to waste time with sleep, caused me to stay up later than I was used to. I’m sure it was all part of his design.

  I went to the kitchen to get myself a glass of orange juice. Most people start their day with a cup of coffee, but me, I have to have a glass of orange juice. I’ve never had a taste for coffee or alcohol, but if they ever start an Orange Juicers Anonymous organization, I will have to be the president. I opened the refrigerator and it was empty—no orange juice. I would have to go to the nearest store if I was going to get my fix.

  It was early, at least for me. If I were the type to wear pajamas, I would’ve still been wearing them. Instead, I wore my usual sweat pants and t-shirt. Normally, I don’t like going out first thing in the morning because ‘first thing in the morning’ starts about four hours later for me than it does for other people. When the sun is almost straight overhead, people expect you to at least look like you’ve been awake for a while.

  I’d only been gone for about twenty minutes, so you can imagine my surprise when I walked back into my house and saw a little boy sitting on my couch holding my bass guitar. Believe it or not, my first instinct was to apologize for the mess, but then I remembered that he was just a little boy.

  I looked around to see who he was with and found it puzzling that he was alone. I didn’t know what to think. He looked like a nice kid, short and skinny with dark hair that was both bushy and wavy. He also wore glasses. It was obvious to me that both his pants and shirt were ironed and his shoes were spotless, unlike the beat-up sneakers most kids his age wore. He looked like the geeky kid who gets picked on in school.

  The kid watched me with a smile on his face as I continued to look him over, trying to figure him out. He didn’t appear to be lost. He just sat there with the confidence of someone who knew where and who he was. For some reason, I also felt that he was where he was supposed to be. Kindness, no—politeness, if there is a difference, seemed to radiate from him. That eased my mind.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Michael said you needed help with your timing,” he answered, still smiling. “I hope you don’t mind that I was playing your bass.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sam, sir.”

  “How old are you, Sam?”

  “I’m eleven,” he answered.

  “Eleven? Michael sent an eleven-year-old boy t
o help me with my timing?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered matter-of-factly, still smiling.

  “Well, um, okay then.” I was really at a loss for words. “You want a beer?” I joked.

  “No, thank you,” he answered, ignoring my failed attempt at humor. “But I will take a glass of orange juice. You should have a cup of water; it’ll help you with your headache.” His high-pitched voice was as polite as any I’d ever heard.

  I brought the bag into the kitchen and poured us each a tall glass of juice. Letting a kid tell me what to drink was not my intention, but this kid was cute. Then it hit me. How did he know about my headache? I was used to that kind of stuff from Michael, but from an eleven-year-old? The kid was intriguing. I didn’t really want the juice anymore, but I drank it anyway just to prove a point.

  Walking back into the living room I asked, “Can you play?”

  “A better question is can you play?” he answered, still smiling.

  “I see that you’ve been hanging around Michael. What are you here to show me?” I asked, emphasizing the word ‘show,’ to let him know I’d been around Michael a bit too.

  “I wanna help you with your timing, but first I think we should deal with your headache.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll help you with it if you’d like me to.”

  “All right,” I answered, more to appease him than because I believed him.

  “Okay, the first thing you need to do is smile.”

  I wasn’t about to smile. His constant smile was already starting to irritate me. I frowned instead.

  “Michael told me that you would act this way,” he commented.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like a donkey. Michael used a different word that I’m not allowed to say, but I think he meant ’stubborn.’ ” He started to laugh. “He said you’d rather keep the headache than risk learning something from a kid. Too much pride, I guess.”

  Now it seemed Michael also knew I had a headache. Did he have the kid programmed? I stood there trying hard not to let the eleven-year-old confuse me. I could feel myself getting angry. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to see what the boy had to offer. There was no one around to witness it if he happened to be much smarter than I, so I decided to give in to him.

  “Okay, Sam, what do you want me to do?”

  “Smile! Really, just smile. Think of something nice or funny that will make you smile, but it has to be real. It will help slow down your tempo a bit. Tempo and temper are related, you know.”

  The kid seemed to know what he was talking about, so I decided to give it a try. I thought about the time that I saw Michael perform three cartwheels in my living room. It was in response to my finally understanding a concept of his that I was having trouble with. He told me it was what a child would’ve done. Watching him maneuver his tall frame around the furniture in my small living room was a sight to behold. That memory made me laugh.

  “Great,” Sam said. “Now, how do you feel?”

  “I have to admit, I do feel a little better,” I answered.

  It was the truth. Smiling immediately relieved much of the tension. The headache wasn’t completely gone, but the throbbing in my temple had slowed down. It was tolerable. If I had to spend the rest of the day feeling like this, I could do it. That thought caused me to smile even more. Of course Sam was still smiling, but now it didn’t bother me as much.

  "That’s always the first thing you should do whenever you wanna feel better. It works for anything, even nervousness or stage fright,” he revealed. “It’s also infectious—people around you will start to smile too.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. I don’t get stage fright, but I will try it for everything else.”

  “Oh, you will,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure what he was referring to, so I let it go. “What should I do next?” I asked.

  “You should bless your headache.”

  “What?”

  “Bless it,” he repeated. “Appreciate what it’s telling you. That’s important.”

  “What do you mean ‘bless it?’ I don’t want this headache. I didn’t ask for it, and I surely don’t want to bless it. I don’t know what it’s telling me, but I’m telling you that you need to spend more time with that friend of yours because this time, kid, you are wrong.”

  Still smiling, he proved me wrong. “Maybe you didn’t ask for it, but you should be grateful for it. It’s an indicator.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “When your car starts to run out of gas, a little indicator light comes on as a warning. That’s a blessing. Your attitude toward the light should be an attitude of gratitude. You don’t get mad and wanna tear it up, do you? You don’t wanna take something to make it go away either. You’re happy that the light gave you the warning, right? You also know that if you don’t pay attention to the warning, you might have a bigger problem.

  “So what we need to do is treat your headache like that little light. When your headache shows up, you should first be thankful for it. Know that it’s here as an early warning; then deal with it right away. In other words, if your timing is right, you can erase the problem before it becomes one. Cool, huh?”

  “Once I recognize the warning signs, how do I get rid of the headache?” I asked him. The kid was making sense, and I was interested in hearing what else he had to say.

  “You need to figure out what it’s warning you about. What’s the cause? It’s not enough to recognize the signs; you have to get to the root of the problem. I hear that you have problems finding the root.” He winked his left eye and flashed a Michael-esque grin. “Now sometimes the root may be buried way down deep, but it must be dug up; it must be exposed so that it can be worked on and prevented in the future.

  “In this case, it’s easy. You just need to drink more water and less juice. In other cases, the causes may be much deeper than that. You may have to deal with them in stages. The main point is that you gotta deal with ’em.”

  “Okay, you say that I need to drink more water. Is that the cause of my headache? Will drinking some water make it go away?”

  “Maybe it will; maybe it won’t. That’s up to you. But even if it doesn’t, you should still be happy that your indicator light came on. Then you should thank it.”

  "Thank it?” I asked with perhaps more belligerence than I should have. "Thank my headache?”

  “Sure!” Smiling Boy replied. “If it weren’t for your headache, you might not know that your body was dehydrated until it was too late. So yes, you should be thanking and blessing your headache right now. That’s what I think.”

  For some reason, maybe because no one else was around, I decided to try it. I told my headache I was proud and happy that it acted as an early warning system. I thanked it for showing up and for gently nudging me back on track. I also welcomed it to return anytime I needed it to. It actually felt really good to thank my headache. And to my surprise, after I was finished, my headache was gone.

  “How do you feel?” Sam asked.

  “I feel great! My headache is gone!” I exclaimed.

  Without hesitation, Sam got up and did three cartwheels around my living room just as I’d seen Michael do. His small frame twirled around so fast that I nearly missed the display. How he did it without knocking anything over in such a tiny space was pretty amazing. Then it hit me. Had I thought about Michael doing cartwheels out loud, or had Sam . . . ? Wait, how did he know? I don’t know about this boy, I thought to myself, or was it only to myself?