Sprained By A Melody

The man looked up at the curtains wafting in and out of the open windows and smiled. He remembered when he was last in the house, the last time he heard Johann Strauss being played. He opened the gate and began to climb the long flight of concrete steps that wound around through the garden of roses and up to the bright purple door. The sweet smell of the roses lingered in his nostrils as he reached out a soft, manicured hand to lift the heavy brass knocker on the door. He knocked three times and stepped back to wait. The music drowned out the sound of his knocking, so he raised the knocker again and knocked louder and still nobody came to answer the door.

“I wish she would hurry up and open the door”, the young man murmured to himself. The case he was holding was laden with goods and was beginning to get very heavy. In desperation, he banged the knocker furiously on the door, chipping some of the purple paint from the door. The music changed to another Strauss’s waltz and the man thought it was The Voices of Spring, though he wasn’t sure. He was getting irritated and his feet and back were aching. He was thirsty, it had been several hours since he had stopped for a drink and something to eat and the frustration of the woman not answering the door was beginning to tell on him.

“Damn and blast flaming Strauss and blast the old hag too,” he complained to the purple door. “I don’t have to put up with this rubbish. If she wants to buy anything from me today, she is out of luck”. The sales rep turned on his heel and began walking down the steps, mumbling under his breath as he went.

Just as he reached the rose garden, his foot slipped off the step and he came crashing down with a thump, hard up against a prickly rose bush. He was in the middle of trying to extricate himself from the thorns when he heard a voice behind him.

“Are you alright Danny, I wasn’t sure if I had heard the knocker or not. I was out the back on the deck doing a touch of painting and I am afraid I had my music up a wee bit loud. Are you alright then?” the young woman asked.

“I seem to have sprained my ankle”” Danny replied as he pulled himself out of the clutches of the rose bush and stood up.

“Come on, let me give you a hand and we will get you up to the house and put a cold compress on that ankle.” With that she grabbed hold of Danny and hefted him up the steps to the purple door.

Danny stumbled to the big easy chair in the lounge and flung himself into it. The music was louder than ever inside and he had to shout to make himself heard. His ankle was beginning to balloon and there was a nasty bruise starting to show.

“Now how the hell am I going to be able to get around and sell anything, the boss is going to be furious.” he thought angrily. “Damn the bloody music.”

Here's Mine-

I used to work for an Artist named Joe who mainly listened to pre-WW2 jazz. I used to sweep out his shop, mix ink, print and do various odd jobs. In return he taught me about carving, Art, and life in general, all the while this crazy (I thought at the time) music blaring away in the background. I sensed a lot of joy in the music and I loved it when Joe would absent-mindedly tap-tippity-tap-tippity-tap his chisel along with the beat as he sat back for a momentary rest and look at whatever he was working on. In his work Joe would often include the likeness of the Musicians he listened to, some of whom he had know personally.

I once asked Joe how much of an influence he thought that the music he listened to had on his work, I was wondering how aware he was of it. “Not much” was his reply, “I just don’t want to listen to anything else.”

Now I find myself remembering with great joy the time I spent with Joe and every time I work on something it is only a matter of time until I turn on Fats or Muggsy or Jack or Louise or Benny and I am the one who is tap-tippity-tapping along with the beat as I sit back for a moment to look at what I’ve done. And what effect does it have on me while I work? I have to admit that it plays quite a large part in whatever I do.

When I was in college I used to listen to recordings of my bands while I threw Pots and made vases. I can still “see” some of the music in the work when I look at photos of the things I made during that period. I used to listen to the band tapes in a walkman with the volume up loud; it helped to drown out other distractions and allowed concentration on the work at hand

While I work I listen to many different genres of Music and giving them names like “Classical” and “Jazz” is useless, those headings are so broad and sometimes overlap and create new species like “Country Rock,” “Fusion,” and “Cow-Punk.” I will listen to almost anything once. If I listen (and I mean really listen) to it twice, I will listen a third and fourth time as well. However, while I am working I usually like something that I am familiar with. If I do it really helps to focus my mind.

I find that the mood of the Music will have a subtle effect on the quality of the lines that I draw, the surfaces that I carve, and the things that I write. Therefore, I must be very careful what I listen to lest it affect the outcome. When I’ve got it right the music sort of rides in the background and is noticed only when there is a searing solo or humorous dialogue or some similar thing that stands out in the moment, not intrusive, a welcome friend gently reminding me of happy days in the years gone by.

As I write this I am listening to some classical music and I find that I often discover myself staring into space and lost in the music. That doesn’t bother me at all; I enjoy the exploration of my inner self, letting my mind take me where it thinks I need to go. Sometimes I can’t always remember where I’ve just been mentally, but I think the freedom is healthy

. When I write music it is usually because I have just heard something that has interested me and it has given me an idea for something that I would like to try. I find it impossible to listen to one thing and compose another at the same time, but if I’ve just heard something interesting there are times when I can’t get it written down fast enough. When I am setting up musical equipment I like to listen to Reggae, it just seems to be the thing for it. Tearing it down I like to listen to old country music. Go figure.

I find that often times, if there isn’t a sound source nearby, my mind will start to playback old music for me. Sometimes this is really annoying, especially if it plays back an old song that I don’t really like. Generally it is rather pleasant, however, and I don’t mind it too much. When I used to run marathons this was handy for long training runs, I didn’t have to carry a walkman. I would sometimes get into a sort of repetitive “chant” that would carry me along for miles. The longer I was out there the more trance-like it would become and with the proper “mantra” I could go on for hours.

I think music is much more important than most people give it credit for. The Ancient Greeks had a mode of music for every important aspect of their lives, from theatre to war. I think we could too, more than just at religious ceremonies and ball games. I know if I sing something I remember it longer than if I just say it. Perhaps it would help us realize more fully the singularity and importance of every moment. Music has power.

Dave Cofell
November 7, 2002