To peek or not to peek: On selective ignorance
It is highly possible that there are numerous reasons why my friends and acquaintances are glad that they are not me. So it goes. But I remember one time, in high school, when a good buddy of mine came right out and said it: “Dude, I’m so glad I am not you.”
It seems he had heard me discussing a piece of music with another musician friend. We had been tearing a song into pieces, trying to figure out what was going on with the time-signatures.
“I think I am insulted,” I responded to my candid pal. “Why, besides the obvious stuff, do you not want to be me?”
“I would hate to have to analyze every piece of music I hear. I want to enjoy what I listen to. It must suck not being able to just listen.”
This — no pun intended — struck a chord with me. It was a good point, you have to admit. Still, the answer came pretty quickly. I told my friend (and I still operate under the same idea) that I listen to music first with my heart and then with my head. If I am moved by the magic, if you will, I try to figure out the incantation, so I can learn to do it myself — so that I can, then, hopefully, move others in kind.
But, you know, there is a certain amount of disappointment that comes along with opening up the curtain seeing that the all-powerful wizard is just an old man with a special-effects machine.
For two years, I taught music theory and history in high school. I was used to teaching English. I still teach English and I love it, but I absolutely loathed teaching music. This is mostly because it felt like I was giving away magicians’ secrets. Somehow, it felt weird to explain the construction of a diminished chord and to turn it from a really cool musical effect into a mere theoretical formula in the minds of thirty kids.
I know people will argue that learning more can increase appreciation — which is the idea behind “music appreciation” courses, of course — but I still feel like intellectual understanding can be a poor substitute for pure emotional connection. To be a better composer, I need to learn about nuts and bolts; but can’t it be a curse to others, who are like my friend, to get tangled up in superfluous information about something that already connects directly to their souls?
I dunno. I just felt like a jerk. A traitor, even. (I might not have felt that way teaching a room full of composition majors. It’s hard to say.)
Anyway, I ran back to Shakespeare and my other dusty, old, inky-fingered friends the next year. (I might as well come right out and say it: I love literature, but I just can’t seem to see it as music’s equal. Only music can really turn on the endorphin storm for me.)
At any rate, the other day my friend’s statement came back to me and I realized he might have been more right than I thought.
For years, I have loved the Elton John song “Come Down in Time.” And, for years, I kept telling myself that I should some day learn it. I just never got around to it. To me, there was something magical about that song: Taupin’s lyrics and John’s melody and simple but perfectly chosen chord progression just converge into something like a sweet, soft, four-minute springtime. Whenever it would come on my iPod at work, I’d have to stop working and just listen. It was one of those songs that never failed to freeze the moments it graced.
Finally, a month ago, I sat at the piano and wrote up a “lead-sheet” for myself. I played it many times and, soon, had it memorized. These days, when I sit at my piano at home to play and sing, it is always on the “set list.” Finally.
But, you know what happened yesterday, when it played on my iPod at work? For the first time, ever, I worked right through it. I didn’t realize it had even come on until I scrolled back through the songs. Could it be that thinking, Ami7, Bmi7, Cmaj7, etc., is the same as peeking through the wizard’s curtain and seeing him crank the dials? Anyway, in this case, the trance is snapped. I still love the song; it still nourishes my heart to sing and play it, but it simply doesn’t stop my world anymore.
To some extent and at some point, I suppose we all need to exchange wonder for growth. But maybe some selective ignorance isn’t such a bad thing. I bought the score to Respighi’s Pines of Rome a while ago. I think I might leave it on the shelves.
Any similar experiences across the arts that you’d like to share?
Chris Matarazzo’s ARTISTIC UNKNOWNS appears every Tuesday.
Latest posts by Chris Matarazzo (Posts)
- Book Review: An Encyclopedia of Tolkien - October 14, 2019
- The Emperor decrees an end to positive comments about “selfies” - June 16, 2015
- The Emperor decrees that graduation clichés will cease - June 9, 2015
- The Emperor decrees that all official documents will be printed in Comic Sans - March 24, 2015
- The Emperor decrees that the letter “E” shall no longer be spoken as an “A” - February 10, 2015
Print This Post
“Exchange wonder for growth…” Four years ago, at age 64, I started taking guitar lessons—to learn to play the songs I love—old jazz standards like Angel Eyes and My funny Valentine or pop songs like Blackbird (the Beatles) and Sarah Smile by Hall and Oats. Even at my advanced age, perhaps especially at my advanced age, learning the theory hasn’t been difficult but the skills come slowly. It would have been better to attack this at age eight. To your point: I have my moments when I realize I am not able to achieve the kind of sounds the experts can, like Joe Pass, and thinking about chords, notes, and smoothing out my transitions takes away from the joy and wonder of the songs. But… when I get to the point of playing without thinking of details, I can get into the emotion of the song and enjoy it for its own sake; and not a as matter of comparison. It becomes a kind of therapy and I feel better for trying. I’m not at all certain that this is “selective ignorance.”
Jim — I experience almost the same thing. Oddly, I started stuydying classical guitar at 37 (43 now) and feel the same way about the playing of John williams as you do about Joe Pass. I think you’re right: the joy of learning is, in the end, as good as the wonder that is lost — maybe better. If it were not, we would stagnate and not try to improve. I some ways, my piece, here, is more poetic than practical. I know nothing is going to stop me from cracking open that Respighi score one of these days. And there will always be new things to wonder about.