Soundtrack

My life has a soundtrack. 

This used to concern me; I worried the roots were pathological – a type of musical schizophrenia.  But while schizophrenics hear voices in their heads, I hear melodies, harmonies, bits and pieces of sonatas and symphonies.  I cannot choose the music – it travels in and out of my head as dreams and nightmares do; connected to my state of mind, but not sensitive to my wishes.

I cannot remember a time when I didn’t live and breathe to musical accompaniment. I would love to say that I was simply born with music in my soul, but my mother is a pianist and piano teacher, and I imagine I spent my time in the womb sucking my thumb as I listened to Chopin, as close to the piano keys as an unborn child can be.  Throughout my childhood, our house was home to a never-ending performance: my mother’s piano, my father’s recorder, my piano and cello, my brother’s violin.  When no one was practicing or teaching, recorded music was piped through speakers throughout the first floor.  To this day I enter the kitchen, or walk into my classroom, and reach for my iPod, searching for just the right accompaniment to my mood.  In moments of relative quiet, with no live music, iPod or radio nearby, my head takes over, providing me with its own internal soundtrack.  I wake up each morning with a melody in my head, and go about my day wondering which phrase or bit will next accompany me on my travels. 

As a child, I remember framing my personal soundtrack in the supremely egocentric and dramatic format of an autobiographical movie.  I watched myself live on the large screen, and narrated my actions and thoughts silently, in the third person. 

Scene: Girl’s bedroom, circa 1972.  Cue soft strains of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence:”  

Narrator:  “She emerges from under the covers after hours of reading in the dark, turns off her flashlight, and spends hours lying awake, staring at the floor and trying to convince herself that the soft patch of light from the street lamp outside is not hot, and will not burst into flames.”

I may no longer imagine my life on the big screen, (though one could safely argue that writing this blog is just as self-absorbed as narrating my relatively uneventful childhood in the third person).  But my soundtrack is still with me, reflecting my moods and shaping my thoughts, day in and day out. 

This morning I woke up to the Gavotte from Bach’s Sixth Cello suite in my head.  It is a spritely and playful piece, but today it felt and sounded fractious and intrusive, as if played by a small child on a shrill violin.  My mood was cranky and irritable: I had a headache, needed caffeine, and was hung-over from a long rehearsal and a rather large celebratory glass of port after the Health Care Bill passed.  The strident Gavotte fit my fractured mood, and nourished it well past the restorative coffee and Advil.  The bits and pieces on my soundtrack have shifted throughout the day: part of Saint-Saens’ Third Symphony crept in while I scrubbed potatoes; Rimsky-Korsakov’s Russian Easter kept time as I folded laundry; I craved and found Andrew Bird’s “Oh No” on my iPod to soothe me as I cleaned up the breakfast dishes.   As eclectic and varied as these pieces are, they all reflected facets of my mood, their presence as comforting and nurturing as an empathetic friend.

The soundtrack library of my brain is my personal history: each piece has been culled from forty-six years of listening and playing.  When a song first speaks to me, I explore it, looking for its moments of wonder and grace. I play it over and over, unraveling the layers and committing them to memory.  (This habit of playing of favorite songs over and over caused my poor parents much anguish, particularly when I expanded my repertoire to include music written after 1940.  They still cringe when they hear the sounds of “Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie.”)    Playing in an orchestra, I am regularly forced to dissect musical creatures that are not of my choosing, de-feathering and deboning until they are laid bare.  Sometimes I am surprised by what lies underneath: there are pieces of music that I come to love only after deconstructing them to their simplest elements (Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the left hand).  Other times I am disappointed: though I love Tchaikovsky, it only took me one rehearsal to conclude he probably should have thrown out his first symphony with the proverbial first pancake.  Unfortunately, once I have practiced and played a piece, it becomes part of my permanent soundtrack repertoire whether I like it or not, ready to be burped up into my brain without a moment’s notice.

One of the nice things about being married to a musician is that you can ask, “So what voices do you have going through your head right now?” and know that you will not be driven to the nearest mental health facility in search of treatment.  Larry says he does not have the continual soundtrack I do (I allow that the extent to which my brain sings is somewhat extreme), but he can relate, and often trade tunes with me.  During the week before an orchestra concert, we spend hours in dress rehearsals, going over and over our music.  Usually for several days after the performance, we cannot get various tunes and phrases out of our heads.  “Guess which piece I’m stuck with right now!” is a typical conversation starter, and we joke by singing certain intrusive passages in each other’s ears like insistent mosquitoes until one of us cries, “Stop!”

Soundtrack companionship also has its humorous moments.  I remember well one romantic night in bed; candles, lingerie, background music from our local classical radio station.  Just as events picked up speed, the radio began playing Brahms’ Hungarian Dance #5.  The rhythm, intensity and somewhat clichéd drama of the music synced so perfectly with the action that it became suddenly wildly ridiculous to both of us, and we burst out laughing in unison, Larry collapsed on top of me, with tears running down our faces.

There are moments of pure joy in my daily soundtrack that I cannot capture in words.  I’ve tried to put them in a poem, but end up tossing cliché-riddled lines aside in frustration.  It’s a moment of musical synchronicity: when the shape of the melody and the blending of the harmonies and the rhythm merge into something magical.  I am able to find one such moment today, even in all my irritable crankiness, as I listen to Bach’s Chaconne for Violin from Partita #2.  The song in my head ruptures free, and bleeds into my soul.  It is a moment of joy and of grace and of wonder, and I cannot imagine my world without it.