Ailing

From Reader's Digest February 2009, p.97-9, by David Hochman

What we lack in musicianship is offset by our willingness to humiliate ourselves.  Failing publicly is the point at Dr Banjo's Bluegrass Jam Camp, where I have come to strum alongside kindred spirits - those whose families couldn't bear the twanging anymore.

My path to musical greatness was diverted roughly 30 years ago.  At age 11, after three years of indentured servitude to my crabby piano teacher, I was at the Baldwin upright when my father and I (in matching three-piece corduroy suits, no less) sang "Heart and Soul" for the extended family.  The cheek pinching afterwards was the final straw.  I vowed never to play again.

In the decades that followed, any urge tp express myself musically had to be exorcised in the privacy of my shower or car.  And while I could clap and snap at all the high parts of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody", so could a howler monkey.  As I approached 40, I felt a craving to actually play something - and not just my iPod.

I signed up for lessons at a music shop in town and felt deep satisfaction even as I butchered "This Land Is Your Land" and "Sweet Georgia Brown."

The focus and fancy fingerwork the mandolin demands were a relief from pecking mindlessly at the computer all day.

Even more remarkable was how grounding it was to play.  Somehow the usual anxieties of life - money, status, the possibility of a meteorite landing on my head - didn't matter when every atom of my humanity was focused on mastering the four-fingered D chord.

Next thing I knew, I was that guy on the airplane trying to shove his instrument case into the overhead compartment.

I know, too, that jamming, like life itself, isn't about perfection but about playing through your mistakes and trusting that you'll get back on track if you just keep up the rhythm.