The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  “A headache can teach us a lot about timing,” Sam said after finishing his exhibition.

  “How so?” I asked.

  "They come at the perfect time. Imagine if they showed up after our bodies broke down.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “And speaking of timing . . .” He paused and reached into his book bag.

  Hearing his gentle, high-pitched voice reminded me that I was dealing with a kid, but I also realized that it no longer bothered me. Pride had receded.

  From his bag, he pulled out a drum machine and plugged it into a spare channel on my bass amp. Without turning it on, he handed me the bass and instructed me to play.

  “Play what?” I asked.

  “He told me you’d say that too,” the youngster commented. “Play anything. Play something you’d play with a band.”

  I thought for a moment and then played a familiar pattern. Sam interrupted me rather quickly.

  “I can tell you’ve played that lick, like, a zillion times, right?”

  Of course he was right. “Yes I have,” I sheepishly replied.

  “Okay then, stop thinking about it. Your rhythm is all screwed up. You’ve been playing the bass guitar and that lick long enough that you shouldn’t have to think about ’em anymore. If you have to think about ’em all the time, it will show up in your playing. And if you continue to play only your bass and your licks, when will you ever get to play Music?”

  “Wow! Are you sure you’re only eleven?” I asked, not expecting an answer. It was a good point, a great point actually. “What should I think about then?” I asked.

  “Well for now, think about your timing because when you’re playing by yourself, it’s not that good. When you play with a drummer, it is good. So I recommend that you hear the drummer as you play. Even before you play, hear the drummer in your head. Do that for a few bars before you begin this time.”

  Taking his advice, I imagined a drummer playing a steady beat. When I was ready, I played along. This time, even I could tell it was better. It felt good. I could see Sam bouncing his head to the beat like a little dark-haired bobble-head doll. Then I hit a wrong note and my attention went back to the bass. Sam heard it too.

  “No!” he cried out. “For this exercise, keep your full attention on the drummer. You don’t need to think about the bass at all, even when you play a wrong note.”

  I did that for a while longer, following Sam’s gentle instructions. He also gave me other things to experiment with. At one point, he asked me to imagine an explosion going off on the first beat of each measure, assuring me that it would surely lock me into the rhythm. It did.

  Sam suggested that when I’m on a gig, I should divide my attention between myself and the rest of the band, but for these specific exercises, all attention should go to the focus points he was giving me.

  The young man then turned on the drum machine which he’d already programmed with a four bar pattern. He instructed me to play and told me to stick to a simple groove, not to solo. I did that until he felt I was comfortable. Then he made a change on the machine. He played the same pattern, but this time, the fourth bar was completely empty. For one bar of the pattern, I was playing without the drums. This was to see how steady I could hold the time by myself and then come back in on beat one. The machine would let me know if I was correct or not.

  Once I’d succeeded at that, Sam repeated the exercise two more times, first leaving out bars three and four, and then leaving out bars two, three, and four. That left me with only one full measure to find the rhythm and three measures to hold on to it. He allowed me to get comfortable with each phase, as the exercise became progressively more difficult.

  “Even though the drums are not playing,” he told me, “the pulse is still there. You gotta grab onto that pulse as quickly as you can and lock it into your body. It’s really important that you do that. Then you’ll feel where you need to be at all times.”

  I knew what he was talking about. When playing with a good drummer, the pulse can easily be felt. Even though different drummers have different pulses, I still agreed with Sam. If I was really “in the groove,” I would definitely be able to feel the pulse.

  "Now I’ll make it just a little bit harder,” he said. "This will tell us how ‘locked in’ you really are.”

  He changed the drum machine once more. There were still four measures playing, but there was an audible beat programmed to play on beat one only. I only had one beat out of sixteen to grasp the tempo. He can’t be serious, I thought. He was. A bit intimidated, I closed my eyes and listened closely.

  To my surprise, I could do it. I could still feel the pulse and I locked in to it. It was a little strange. Even though there was no audible pulse playing, I could definitely feel it. With just one beat to go on, I kept perfect time for the next fifteen beats. I was so happy that I felt like doing three cartwheels myself. I opened my eyes to find Sam fiddling with the drum machine once again. He changed it back to the original program consisting of four complete patterns.

  “Now we’ll start all over,” he continued. “Play the same groove, but this time start adding in some ‘fills’ at the end of measures.”

  It was pretty easy until the drum machine started leaving out measures. It was then that I realized where my focus went whenever I played a fill. I rushed like crazy during every one of them, and the drum machine let me know it. Sam pointed out that during my fills, my attention would revert back to the bass and the groove would falter because of it. That was a “big no-no.” “Remember,” he said, “for this exercise, keep your focus on the pulse, not on what you’re playing.”

  When I succeeded at each phase of the exercise, he started the whole process over again, this time instructing me to “all out solo.” It was difficult. Trying to figure out what to play and keep the pulse was easier said than done. I did well at the beginning stages of the exercise, but when it got down to having only one beat out of sixteen, I was completely lost.

  Raising his hand to stop me, Sam spoke. “When you get to the place where you can solo to just one beat every four measures and not lose the pulse, playing with a drummer, even a bad drummer, will be a piece of cake. Here, let me show you.”

  He picked up my bass and played a very solid groove to the pattern consisting of only one beat. I was shocked. This eleven-year-old boy could play, and he smiled the whole time. Maybe that’s the key. If it worked on my headache, maybe it could work on my groove.

  He then proceeded to play the best bass solo I’d heard in a long time. He started with a sixteenth note pattern leaving a space on beat one just so I would know he was right on it. He didn’t deviate from the pulse even a little. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, Sam took it to another level.

  "There’s one more level to the ‘one beat’ part of this exercise, ” Sam told me. “It’s an advanced level. You’re not ready for it, but I’ll show it to you anyway if you’d like.”

  “I can’t imagine anything more amazing than what you just did, but yes, please show me.”

  “Before, when we were playing, we were focused on feeling the pulse,” he said. “It was feeling the pulse that allowed us to stay in time. Now the goal will be to lose the pulse altogether. Let’s not focus on it. I’ll try my best to have no idea where it is. I’ll allow the feeling in my body to tell me how much space has gone by; then I’ll make a guess and see if I can play on beat one.”

  He resumed playing to the one-beat-only pattern on the drum machine. At first he allowed his amazing groove to take over, but then he started playing random patterns in no particular rhythm. He was talking to me at the same time. Every time beat one came around, he was right on it. It was pretty amazing, but it was nothing compared to what he was about to show me.

  “Turn the volume all the way down,” he instructed. "There’s a blinking light on the machine that’ll tell you where beat one is. I won’t look at it, but I’ll still try to keep time with it. Let me know how I d
o.”

  I did what he asked when all of a sudden, he put the bass down and walked into the kitchen. My eyes darted between him and the drum machine. I didn’t know what he planned to do. I could hear him pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Except for the sound of juice hitting the glass, it was silent in the room. Then, from the kitchen I heard him shout, “One!” I was looking at the light on the drum machine and he was right with it. It was unbelievable. It is still unbelievable. His voice and the blinking light were completely in sync.

  I watched as he walked down the hallway and into the bathroom. He relieved himself and flushed. After washing his hands, he again shouted, “One!” It seemed impossible. If I wasn’t witnessing it, I would’ve never believed that anyone’s timing could be that good. Returning to the living room, he took a seat next to me on the couch. He looked directly into my eyes as Michael had done many times before. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

  His voice lowered. “Music is alive, and if you treat her that way, she will speak to you. You will feel her pulse. That is her heartbeat. 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 it.”

  As he talked, Sam appeared much older. His voice took on the tone of someone much wiser than his age allowed. I listened carefully as he continued.

  “It doesn’t have to take long to learn what I just did. Music is played from the mind, not the body. So do whatever you can to exercise your mind. That’s very important! Okay?” With that comment he stood up to leave.

  I was in awe. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I joked.

  "This is school, isn’t it?” he answered, smiling again. He then turned and walked away.

  As I watched him close the door, I sat there amazed at the little kid who had just given me a music lesson. Even though I was a bit embarrassed at the situation, I wished that someone else had been there to witness what I’d just been through. I knew that no one would believe me if I told them. I sat back on the couch trying to remember all that Sam had shown me.

  As I started to get up to get myself a glass of water, I realized that he’d left his drum machine. How would I ever find him to return it? I didn’t know who he was or where he lived. I looked at the machine and noticed it was still running. Just then, I heard the door open. It was Sam.

  “One!” he shouted, just as the light blinked. “You can keep it. Thanks for a really fun day, sir. Timing is everything, isn’t it?”

  I sat, stunned and silent.

  MEASURE EIGHT

  Tone

  Doctors use lasers to operate. Music,

  in the right hands, can do the same thing.

  It was later that day, after Sam had left, that I was driving downtown. I hadn’t seen Michael all day and was hesitant to leave my house for fear of missing him. I had a few questions about Sam I wanted to clear up. He told me that he had learned from Michael about twelve years earlier. Since he was only eleven, that statement raised a few questions in my mind.

  I was driving through a pretty run-down part of town when I saw someone who resembled Michael. I drove around the block to get another look, and sure enough, it was him. He was sitting in the grass talking to a homeless man. Michael’s clothes were more tattered and worn than I’d ever seen them. He looked like a homeless man himself. I wasn’t sure he wanted me to see him that way, but just as I decided to drive on by, he stood up and flagged me down. I parked the car, locked the door, and walked over to him.

  “It tooks ya long enough. I thought you neva was gonna show up,” Michael said.

  “You thought what?” I asked. I never knew if he was serious when he said stuff like that, or if he was just improvising. I decided that it didn’t matter. Also, his new dialect was confusing me.

  “Dis is Uncle Clyde.” he said. “He’s originally from New Awleens, but he lives over dere unda da bridge now. We sits here ever so often just talkin’ ’bout dis and dat. Right now we’s tryin’ to figure out if ’n Life is alive or not. I says dat it is, and so do Clyde. We jus’ trying to figure out a way dat anyone can say dat it’s not.”

  Uncle Clyde was an older man. He seemed much older than Michael, but since I didn’t know Michael’s age, Clyde’s age remained a mystery too. His skin was dark, as was his short scruffy hair. His graying mustache and full beard hid both his top and bottom lips but didn’t totally obscure his peaceful smile. Although he appeared elderly, his skin was smooth and his teeth were straight and white.

  His demeanor was not like that of most homeless people. He seemed happy and cheerful, as if he was exactly where he wanted to be. And unlike other homeless people I’d seen in the area, he carried nothing with him. He had no bag or cart heaped with his possessions. His clothes, though tattered, were not dirty, just very worn, as if he wanted them that way.

  “You mus be dat musician Michael wus tellin’ me about,” Uncle Clyde said. “He say dat you’s real good, but dat you don’t know it yet. Come ’ere and let me have a look atcha.”

  I glanced at Michael.

  “Goes on, son. It’s awright,” Michael added, gesturing toward Uncle Clyde.

  I could understand Clyde talking that way, but it was awkward hearing Michael speak in such a manner. If I’d heard that voice over the phone, I wouldn’t have believed it was him.

  I walked over to where Uncle Clyde was sitting. He slowly rose to his feet as if every bone in his body ached and proceeded to look me over. The way he moved made me think that I should be examining him instead.

  He started by looking closely at individual strands of my hair. He even pulled out a strand (which hurt by the way) and showed it to Michael. They talked about it for a moment, but I couldn’t hear what they said.

  He then worked his way down my body, examining everything from my eyes down to my feet. I even had to remove my shoes for him. “Wear clean socks and underwear, son. You never know when a homeless man is gonna give you a physical,” I could hear my mom saying. I looked at Michael during the long process. He assured me with his looks that I should let Clyde continue.

  When he was done, Uncle Clyde looked at Michael and said, “I thinks dat if da word life means dat sumpin’ is alive, den dat mus mean dat Life is alive.”

  “Makes complete sense to me,” Michael replied.

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted impatiently. “Aren’t you gonna tell me what you found out?”

  “About wut?” they asked in unison.

  “About me! You just looked over my whole body from head to toe. Aren’t you gonna tell me anything about it?”

  Michael looked at Uncle Clyde and I did the same.

  “Well suh, I don’t rightly care about yo’ body too much,” Clyde said as he lowered himself back to the ground. “I wus jus’ lookin’ at it to see ’bout you. I jus’ wanted to see if ’n you is what Michael says you is. You know how he can stretch da trufe sometimes.”

  I knew what he was talking about, but it wasn’t the time to discuss Michael’s truth stretching. I was more curious about other things. “What did my body tell you about me?” I asked.

  “Well suh, if ’n you really wanna know, I guess it’s alright to tell ya a thing or two. You think so, Michael?” He glanced at Michael for his approval. Michael nodded in affirmation.

  “Yo’ body,” said Clyde, “resonates wit a certain vibration. Dis vibration puts out a certain tone dat I can read, dependin’ on what yo’ soul is up to, dat is. Sorta like how an engineer can read da tones in Music. You see, yo’ soul has an agenda fo’ you. Now even you don’t know wut dat agenda is, I can see dat, but you and yo’ soul is just about to catch up wit’ each other. It’s always exciting when dat happens in a person’s Life. Fo’ some people, it happens before dey gets here. Dat ain’t no fun at all. Dis is where da fun is at. I wanna see you again in a few years.” He turned to look at Michael.