I Ain't No Musician

I’m not a musician, but I’ve lived with them all my life.   My mother, a church choir director and piano teacher, exposed me to hymns, spirituals, and various kinds of classical music.  My sister, an opera singer who teaches singing at Indiana-Purdue Fort Wayne, taught me to appreciate musical theatre (sorry, sis, never got the opera).  My brother, a drummer, exposed me to the Doobie Brothers and Jackson Browne.  Various boyfriends led me to a diverse range of music ranging from Motley Crue to Led Zeppelin.  No wonder those relationships didn’t work out.  My husband, a trombonist and singer, introduced me to the Grateful Dead, Jimmy Buffett, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, along with countless others in the singer-songwriter category. 

Aside from a one-year experiment with the viola in middle school (can you imagine middle school orchestra concerts?), I have never been a musician.  But I was a deejay in clubs when I was 18.  Back in the 80’s, you had to be 21 to get into bars in Indiana, but if you were a performer, you could be 18.  Being a deejay taught me to find themes and patterns in music and put them together.  Keeping people on the dance floor was the sign of success.  On a personal level, I always reached beyond the dance hits to the songs that told stories or had some wisdom to offer.  I’m a sucker for a good line.

Music has the power to help us name experiences, speak back to injustice, and unite. On the tenth anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001, I look back on some of the music that offered—and still provides-- connection, understanding, and healing.

Jackson Browne’s rendition of Little Steven’s “I Am a Patriot” is an anthem about refusing to be categorized (I ain’t no Democrat/I sure ain’t no Republican) and yet feel a sense of pride and belonging to the United States.   http://youtu.be/saYvWAVmT_s

There is no doubt that New York suffered the largest loss—not just on a human scale, but on an identity scale.  Those two iconic, seemingly permanent buildings represented so much of the swagger of that city.  To have them vanish in the space of an hour created a gap that will never be filled.

Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising” is a triumphant homage to the American spirit, writ large. It’s a perfect adrenalin rush that addresses the need to do something:  http://youtu.be/eNnB4dkVRJI

On the other end of the spectrum, you have Loudon Wainwright III’s quiet song, “No Sure Way.”  He was on the subway when the attacks began, and tells the story of that eerie experience.  As the train went under the WTC, he writes: The lights were on/it somehow seemed obscene. http://youtu.be/q3EIVKnyLCQ

And then you have those who use their songwriting and harmonies to describe what it felt like afterward:  a fear that things will never get better, and a profound hope and sincere belief that yes, they indeed will.  The Eagles’ “Hole in the World” asks us to not let the hole get bigger and deeper, but to heal the wound by understanding the bigger picture: Anger/is just love disappointed. http://youtu.be/haNpuHZam40

And then you have Girlyman’s “Amaze Me” which asks us to appreciate all the beautiful parts of where we have the privilege to live: http://youtu.be/UdXAXJ21AIY

When I think about how these songs still have the power to enrich my understanding of what happened on Sept. 11, 2001, I wonder if music can also heal us in this extended dark period when people are losing what they own, not to mention a sense of identity and belonging—that they have an important place in this world.  There is no giant catastrophe, no one event where we can all share the same sorrow and subsequent unity.  But the songs above demonstrate that we know how to heal, we know how to connect, and we know how to make sense of experience.  You do not have to be a musician to appreciate all the different ways music serves us.