The Music Lesson

by Victor L Wooten

  “Why aren’t you out playing gigs, making records, teaching, or something like that? You could make a good living playing harmonica the way you do.”

  I’m not sure that Clyde ever answered my question. He seemed to have his own agenda when he spoke.

  “What did I do?” he asked, placing his harmonica in his breast pocket.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You just heard me play. What did I do?”

  “You played some unbelievable harp,” I answered.

  “Besides that. What did I do to you when I played?”

  “To me? I don’t know what you mean.”

  "Think about it,” Clyde instructed.

  He leaned back in his chair and waited. He was staring at me as if he could see inside me. I thought for a few moments, searching hard for an answer before I finally realized what he was talking about.

  “You set me up. Yeah, you set me up! That’s what you did. And you did it in a way that I didn’t even realize it was happening. First you started with simple phrases, simple repetitive phrases, and you made sure that these phrases were familiar-sounding too. They were sing-able, and you kept playing ’em until I became real familiar with ’em. Then, you changed ’em. At first, I must admit, I didn’t think that you were that good, but then your phrasing became jazzier, in a way I never thought I’d hear on a harmonica. Your phrases also changed in length until it seemed like you weren’t even breathing. Then, after taking it to the highest level possible, you brought it back to the beginning, bringing me back home again.”

  Clyde smiled as he commented, “Oh, you think that was my highest level? That was just the highest level I knew you could understand. I could’ve taken you to another galaxy and left you hangin’ way out there to dry if’n I’d wanted to. I took it easy on you, son.”

  Both he and Michael started laughing, so I joined in too.

  “What you didn’t notice,” Clyde continued, “was that I also phrased the tempo. I started out playing way behind the beat to make you feel laid back. Then, as I started to change it up a bit, I combined rushing the tempo with laying back on it. This caused your body to feel a bit uneasy inside. Then when I played those long, fast jazzy lines, I played on top of the beat. I rushed it just a little. I also left very few spaces, making it sound like I wasn’t breathing. I had you holding your breath, whether you realized it or not. At the end, I quickly came back to my original phrase, laying back behind the beat again. That made you exhale and relax, like you were in a familiar place. And even though you didn’t, you wanted to put your bass down and start applauding. I know you did. Works every time.” He spread his hands and leaned forward in his chair, taking a bow.

  He was right. I had felt the urge to applaud.

  “I’ve never known that much thought to be put into a solo on the spot, especially on the harmonica,” I commented, adding a little humor of my own.

  “I know what you mean. ’Thought’ is usually reserved for you bass players. Ain’t that right?” Clyde answered.

  “Touché,” I replied.

  “You ever hear about someone breaking a glass with a high pitched note?” Clyde asked. He picked up my empty orange juice glass that was still sitting on the table from Sam’s visit.

  “Yes I have. I’ve never seen it done, but I’ve heard about it,” I answered.

  "That ain’t nuthin’ but vibrations. And if they can shatter a glass, imagine what they can do to your body. Now, I can do the same thing by setting up phrases. The proper use of phrases allows me to gradually change your mind and body. Changing it all at once can cause your head to explode jus’ like that glass. All I do is set up groups of vibrations to produce the same or similar effects. But instead of one powerful vibration, I can use a group of vibrations. It can be done in the course of a solo, or it can be done over the course of a whole night. You know, it can be done over the course of a few days if you want to. You can ‘set up’ yo’ listeners to hear or feel things in a particular way later on in the night, or later on in their Life. That’s all Michael’s been doing to you. He’s been settin’ you up one phrase at a time. Actually, you’s been doing it to yo’self for years too; you jus’ didn’t knows it. You’s been settin’ yo’self up for dis event fo’ a long time now.” He reverted to his old way of talking for effect I guess.

  “You mentioned that before,” I said, “something about me getting ready for this time, or something like that. What are you talking about?”

  Uncle Clyde looked at Michael as if to get permission to speak. He slowly stood up and walked over to me. He stood so close that our noses almost touched. I could feel the warmth of his breath as he prepared himself. Whenever Michael stood this close to me, I knew that he was going to say something important. Clyde’s brown eyes pierced my soul as he looked at me. I widened my stance and readied myself for his words. He spoke in a gentle whisper, but with a serious tone.

  “You’re at a special time in your Life, son. You might say that you’re ending one phrase and starting another. What direction you play this phrase in is completely up to you and don’t ever think that it’s not. This is important! It’s time for you to take control of your Life and for you to accept that it is you who’s in control. You understand?”

  He took a step back and continued. “You see, mos’ musicians play a bunch of notes and hopes dat a good phrase comes out. Dat’s awright, but it ain’t da best way. If you keep yo’ mind on da feel, da shape, or da purpose of da phrase, all da right notes will come out on dey own. Dis is how we talk, ain’t it? We don’t pay no attention to every word unless we has to. It’s da feeling, da meaning dat’s on our mind. You can get all messed up if ’n you tries to pay attention to every lil’ note. You can do it like dat if ’n you wants to—ain’t nuthin’ wrong with it—but it don’t make much sense to me.” He lowered his head, shaking it side to side.

  “So you’re in control of the phrases, but you release your control of the individual notes?” I asked.

  “But I can control ’em notes too if ’n I want to, or if ’n I don’t,” he answered. Taking his seat again, he pulled his harmonica out of his pocket and used it to gesture. “I use control and no control at da same time. ’Cause see, if ’n yo’ phrases keeps coming out wrong, you may needs to go down to da level of da individual notes to see what da problem is. You understand? If you jus’ think about how yous talk, it’ll all make sense. Add dis system to da way you play and da way you live yo’ Life, and you’ll be awright.”

  All of a sudden, when I finally felt as though I was starting to comprehend what was being said, a thought from an earlier conversation entered my mind, pushing all understanding aside.

  “But wait a minute!” I shouted. “Michael, just a few minutes ago you were telling me something about ‘time’ being my perspective. Then, Clyde, you were talking about how ‘precious little time’ we have on this planet. Now, that seems like a contradiction to me. I’m confused, again.”

  "That’s ’cause you can’t hardly believe anything that Clyde says,” Michael snickered.

  “What? Why not?” I asked.

  “Because he’ll probably tell you something wrong, something exactly the opposite of what I say,” Michael answered.

  “Well then who should I believe?”

  “Don’t listen to dat fool. Listen to me,” Uncle Clyde mocked with a smile on his face. “I only tells da trufe, da whole trufe, and nuthin’ buts da trufe.”

  “No! You should only believe what I say!” scoffed Michael.

  “Don’t believe nuffin’ he say!” Clyde shouted.

  “Wait a minute! You guys are really confusing me!” I shouted in return. “I don’t know who to believe or what to think anymore.”

  “Perfect!” Michael stated, nodding his head at me.

  “Perfect?” I answered. They were feeding my frustration. “How is that perfect?”

  “You don’t need to believe none of us,” Clyde answered in a gentle tone. “You need to listen to us. That’
s all.”

  “Well then, who do I believe?”

  “Well then, who do you believe?” They almost answered in unison.

  They knew I hated that type of answer, so I just glared at both of them.

  “Who makes your decisions for you?” Clyde asked.

  “I do!”

  "Then who do you believe?” Michael asked again.

  Michael was irritating me and he knew it. Glancing back and forth between the two of them was compounding the effect. I stood there for a moment trying to compose myself before I answered. Looking back on it, I see what they were doing. Their antics helped me form my own conclusion.

  “I guess I should believe myself,” I answered.

  "That’s right, son,” Uncle Clyde confirmed.

  Michael patted me on the shoulder and nodded. “Very good. I can tell you have more to say about that. What is it?”

  Michael kept his hand on my shoulder which helped me relax. I felt inspired, so I spoke. “I should listen to all that you or anyone else has to say. Then I make up my own mind. I choose what I want to believe. And if I’m having trouble figuring out what the truth is, what my truth is, I ask questions, listen, and let experience talk to me.” I had it and I knew it.

  “Bingo!” Michael exclaimed.

  “You ain’t half as bad as Michael said you was,” Clyde added, laughing.

  Michael stepped over and stood between Clyde and me. It was his turn to stand as close to me as he could. His green eyes twinkled as he spoke.

  “If you believe what we say all the time, you may never come to your own realization. And your own realization is the only realization there is. If we tell you different things, you will be forced to decide for yourself. And your own decisions are the only decisions you should ever make. But when you can’t decide, you will have to rely on experience. If you have no experience to draw from, trust your feelings. That is always best because your feelings are the only ones that will always speak the truth. If you are still unsure, test all the theories to see which one works. Often times you will find that more than one will work. But that still leaves you with a decision to make. Your decisions are best made by you and no one else.”

  Clyde stood up and pushed Michael aside. He waved his hands at him saying, "The kid just said that, Michael, and with less words too. You were always the wordy type. Let me talk to the boy.”

  Uncle Clyde walked over to me and stood with his nose to mine again, to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. It still surprised me to see him move with such grace after the slow, aged way he had moved when I first met him.

  “You just needs to listen to all of it, son,” Clyde continued. “Keep yo’ mind open to all the information. That’ll help you make the best decisions. One bad decision today can cause yous to end up way off course later on down the line. You understand, son?”

  “I do, Uncle Clyde,” I answered.

  “Good! Don’t forget it then.” He nodded and turned toward his seat.

  I liked Uncle Clyde. His mannerisms were very different from Michael’s. Although Michael was a born clown, it was Clyde who made me want to smile every time he spoke. Clyde’s demeanor reminded me of a Stradivarius violin. The older it gets, the sweeter the sound. And what he had to say was music to my ears.

  “Why do they call you Uncle Clyde anyway?” I asked him.

  He slowly took his seat before replying. “Because I’s related to everybody. You see, Brother Clyde or Father Clyde sound a bit too religious to me. Plus dey don’t quite have da same ring to ’em as Uncle Clyde do. Both Cousin Clyde and Grandpa Clyde sound pretty cool, but I’s older den yo’ cousin and younger den yo’ grandpa. Now dat’s all I’s gonna say about dat. I’s tired of talkin’. Michael, listen here; go ova’ dere and pick up dat guitar. Kid, you grab da bass.

  Let’s make some Music.”

  MEASURE TEN

  Space/Rest

  Life is a lot like Music.

  You’ve gotta put some rest in there.

  “Zero,” she said.

  "What?”

  "Zero.”

  “What about it?”

  “It is a mysterious number, my child.”

  “So?”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  “It means nothing to me!”

  “Exactly! It means ‘nothing,’ but it also means ‘ze most.’ ”

  A few days had gone by since I’d last seen Michael. The time we’d spent with Uncle Clyde was an eye-opening experience, and our all-night jam had left me wanting more. Listening to those two guys play together was like hearing two brilliant minds speak on any subject they chose. Sometimes I could understand what they were saying but most of the time I just sat there in awe, enjoying their interactions.

  I spent the next few days practicing my bass, waiting for either one of them to return and answer the questions I still had. Knowing that Michael would often show up unexpectedly, I hadn’t left the house for fear of missing him. On the third day I awoke feeling tired, bored, and lonely. I picked up my bass but immediately knew I was in no mood to practice. Trying to escape my troubled thoughts, as well as get some fresh air, I placed the bass on the floor, put on my shoes, and hopped in the car.

  Driving has always been good for my mind. It seems to put it in a good space. That day, however, I didn’t want to be gone for too long so I cut my drive short and headed to the nearest bookstore to see if I could find anything else by Tom Brown, Jr.

  I was hoping to make a quick stop but my plans were thwarted by a most intriguing character. As I walked through the entrance of the store, a woman rivaling Michael’s peculiar appearance grabbed my arm. I knew my day was about to get very interesting.

  “Zero, I say,” she repeated, her long purple nails gripping my arm. “It means ze most, no?”

  “What are you talking about? No! It doesn’t mean the most,” I answered, looking down on her. “It means nothing! The first number is the number one! Before that, you have zero, which is nothing!” I don’t know why I continued to indulge her by answering. It seemed a futile exercise.

  “You are correct, but you are also wrong,” she replied, looking up at me through her glasses and offering a curious smile.

  I shook my head. The conversation had just begun, and I was already frustrated. I didn’t have time for her. I was in a hurry. All I wanted to do was make a quick stop in the bookstore and get back home. I hoped that Michael would be dropping by, and I didn’t want to risk missing him. Well, life had another plan for me that morning and Michael would have to wait because just inside the entrance of the store, I found myself engaging in a strange conversation with a very strange lady about, strangely enough, nothing.

  Just inside the front door of the bookstore was a small table with one chair. The table was covered with a purple fabric, and on it sat a crystal ball surrounded by a circle of cards that were either blank or facing down. A single candle stood burning in the corner.

  The Amazing Isis: Seer of Past, Future, and Now! *Also, Free Gift-Wrapping* the sign on her table read. Like I said, she was strange. She was also short, very short. I guess she stood about four and a half feet tall (in heels). Standing there in front of her, I could imagine what Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz must’ve felt like towering above the Munchkins. I thought about clicking my heels three times but knew that it wouldn’t get me home any quicker.