Make Mine Music

I’ve always been a big fan of The Lord of the Rings, and I was compelled, even at an early age, by Tolkein’s strange and fantastic retelling of history. But it was more than a curious child’s first foray into literature. Tolkein’s world comes into being only when the gods begin to make beautiful music. They literally sing the Earth into existence.

For some people, life is a song and the world is ignited by music. There is music in the hum of the city, in the clicking of stiletto heels, in the rumble of the underground trains and the beating of the hearts of strangers.

The world is not full of music, it is music. For me, all of us are music indefinable.

Thanks mostly to MTV, modern music consists primarily of lip-synching strippers who are famous for songs they didn’t write, performed on instruments they cannot play. I don’t see anything inherently wrong with this (I am, after all, a man), but when I hear these entertainers described as artists, my stomach turns. It is true that the airwaves are dominated by ear candy, and what we call “pop music” certainly has its place. But in the fringes and, in some cases, even in the spotlight, real artists are delivering valiant, original music on a regular basis. For anyone interested and willing to invest the effort that is a part of nearly every worthwhile endeavor in this world, bliss is only a click of the mouse away.

Here are just a few of the gifted musicians who are decorating our lives one song at a time.

I own many more DVDs than I have any right to. Five of these are live performances by Björk. The other night, I popped in her Royal Albert Hall concert from 2001. One of the things that is so wonderful about her music is its ability to sound fresh with each listen. The song structures are just obscure enough to elude complete understanding. They are brilliant in their ability to comfort and confound, to mesmerize and to flatly awe. I adore her music for its commitment to honesty, but most of all its beauty, its soaring, nearly incomprehensible loveliness. My own music is a way of acknowledging that I aim to follow in her footsteps, to bring beauty to the world without reducing the dialogue to a few pretty notes. I am almost a complete failure in this regard, but I won’t always be.

When Beck released his album Sea Change in 2002, it was hailed as a masterpiece by critics. Beck Hanson’s music has always been a rich, diverse fusion of rock, country, and electronic influences. But nothing emotional was at stake until he stripped away the bells and whistles, revealing a crushing frankness and a bittersweet wit. If it isn’t quite as honest as Björk’s best music, it is only more fascinating as a result.

Before he was America’s John McEnroe for the new millennium, Ryan Adams was the driving force behind alt-country’s Whiskeytown, whose 2001 album Pneumonia may be the purest expression of the form by a band not named The Jayhawks. Alt-country takes country music’s impeccable taste and leaves behind its corny lyrics. Pneumonia features Adams’ most consistent and satisfying songwriting, and the arrangements are characteristically expert. No road trip should be deprived of this soundtrack.

I could go on forever, filling more volumes than Gibbon did when he wrote all that stuff about Rome. But let’s not talk about music. Let’s listen to it.

At the Blue Note and the Village Vanguard, where you can still rub shoulders with Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter. The masters of Jazz, one of our most magnificent art forms, are dying. See them while you still can. Let them bring you music.

At the Met, where Hei-Kyung Hong, a soprano with a voice as strong and as lilting as any I can imagine, sings several roles each season. Go see her before opera passes you by forever. Let her bring you music.

At Bowery Ballroom and Irving Plaza and Hammerstein, where the “next big thing” will only cost you a sawbuck or two. Catch them before someone else does. Let them bring you music. And beer.

At Carnegie Hall and Avery Fisher Hall, where the gigantic torch of classical music burns as brightly as ever. Let well-dressed, immaculately groomed violinists bring you music. Let them bring it to you and change your life.

There is enough music out there for all of us. The best songs, across all genres and eras, are the ones that sound awkward at first listen, with their strange chords and shifting tempos, but inevitably find the deepest corners of your soul. The best songs reflect versions of ourselves we didn’t even know existed. That can be intimidating. And exhilarating. And frustrating.

That’s music. Pass it on.

Mount Sinai Mosaic: Spring 2004