Monday, October 06, 2008

Chasing After the Ukulele

“That’s it,” I thought. “That’s the sound I’ve been trying to get.” I was sitting cross-legged in my parents’ basement one Christmas several years ago with my Ukulele in my lap. Dad had set me up with a microphone, a mixer, and some headphones. He had angled the microphone and placed it close to the strings. When I strummed, the headphones delivered the rich, full tones that I had become accustomed to. When I tried to record at home, the result was flat and two-dimensional. This sound of the ukulele—the bell tones of the higher strings, the plucky and thick lower strings, the muted padding of my fingers pressing into the fret board—this sound was complete, except that it was even better because it was amplified perfectly directly into my head.

When I played it back, it seemed lackluster. It was definitely better than the recordings I had created back home, but something was missing. I put the headphones back on, pulled in the mic, and started over. Again, I found that intimate sound of the ukulele that I had never been able to capture before. And again, the playback was somewhat diminished. On the third try, I realized what was happening. When I played the ukulele, its vibrations buzzed through my torso. By being close, I heard the pure, warm, familiar tone, but I also experienced the physics of the music. By bringing a high-quality microphone nearly between my fingers and the nickel-wound nylon strings, the sound could be preserved, but the depth of the moment could not be duplicated.

It occurred to me that no one can know music like a musician does. A person will never really be able to understand the full sound of a saxophone unless he puts the wet reed in his mouth and his fingers on the padded buttons. I remember thinking this a few years later at an Interlochen Arts Academy student concert. The audience had no problem enjoying the performance, but no one there—even the musicians—could ever have the whole experience. The first violinist was privy only to the wooden box in her fingertips, and even though she was literally surrounded in sound, only her instrument reverberated through her in a deep and personal way. To know her violin so well, she could not—and may never—know the bassoon two rows back.

At Vandergriff Park last week, Marcy and I walked the little, oval track while the kids played on the playground equipment inside the loop. Several families were there as well as some teens and a very brave spandexed yoga troop. Marcy and I marveled at our little family, fretted over the economy and politics, batted about career plans, and breathed in the first breath of October. After the conversation subsided, I watched Marcy out of the corner of my eye. Her mind never slows, I can tell. I have periods of time in which no words are in my head; this, I believe, is unimaginable to Marcy. She is like my ukulele, reverberating deeply in me. No one else can know what it is like for me when I am engaged with her. Someone could get close and listen to us talk for a good while, but the experience would be lacking the subterranean tremors that make the bones hum like railroad tracks before the train.

The converse is true, too. Of all the people in the park, I understand no one except those with which I am connected. They are all bassoons and I am walking with my violin.

I imagine that a ukulele cannot appreciate itself the way I appreciate it. The vibration that I find so essential to its experience is probably inane to the ukulele—normal, even. I wish Marcy could see herself the way I see her. I wish everyone could. For that matter, I wish I could see myself the way Marcy sees me. If half the things she says about me to me are true, then I want to meet me.

What I do know is, none of this can be captured. The best I can do is to be awake, to be paying attention, to strum the strings, to listen, to feel, and to respond; to enjoy the wind through my fingers and not try to catch it.

A Semester of Psychology in 76 Words

My brother, Steve, and I were standing in the backyard a while ago with our very young toddlers toddling around, and he told me this story:
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Once in college, my schedule was tight and I really needed to get out of a psychology class. I asked the professor if he would let me clep out of his course, and he said that if I could answer one question right there, then I would get full credit for the class.

“Okay,” I said.

“Finish the sentence,” he said. “All behavior is…”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Learned!”

“Nope,” he said. “I’ll see you in class.”
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Well, of course I bit. “What’s the answer?” I was surprised. I would have guessed learned.

Steve shook his head. “I should have thought about it for a while,” he said. “All behavior is motivated.”

This story has always stuck with me. Motivated. That’s interesting. As a teacher, I work with people all day—students, other teachers, administrators. Everything they do is motivated.

That’s really wild. It’s also pretty useful.