But there’s an endangered tribe running through the bliss fields, prone to miss the magic. You guessed it - musicians.
Recently I heard Judy Collins describe her struggle with depression, alcohol and drugs from early on. If a singing angel yearns for joy in the midst of plenty, what’s to become of the rest of us?
Many people tell me they love music. Some of them are musicians. Most of them are connoisseurs, curators of their music collections, fans of bands and troubadours. At least that’s how it seems to me, but of course I’m biased because I’m a musician endangered by the making of music.
Music can be a buffer against the cares of the world. A friend of mine had a tough childhood. Hank Williams on the radio at night was his refuge and salvation.
But it’s hard to find joy in a craft you love that also says ‘get out there for the world to hear.’ Getting it out there is more than hooking up some mics and amps and letting ‘er rip. It’s a rowdy expertise we call ‘marketing’ which has a tendency to leak frustration, doubt and a certain crass materialism into the pure realm of music euphoria.
Imagine a winged creature at home on the wind, suddenly forced to truck around bird ads on her skinny legs and spritely feathers. You think we’d expect her to sing too?
I haven’t figured out how to avoid the derangement of the market place. Yes, I do love music. But I’m hopelessly inept at sales. ‘Swoop with me into the wild blue yawn?’ I might as well tell you to get religion (my religion), which won’t be happening anytime soon.
See what I mean? Hopeless.
Painting Margret Hofheinz-Döring, Meeting of Birds Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0
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