Music consumes me. Remembering a day when there wasn’t music is impossible. A student once told me he couldn’t remember when Google didn’t search. For me, it’s music.
Music defines who I am; it’s a routine, a habit. It reminds me of the worst times and makes me smile about the best. An elixir perhaps, art in purest form; moving, motivating, reflective and celebratory, often at the same time.
For those who don’t understand, nor experience similar thoughts and feelings, I feel saddened for you. A love of music makes each day more enjoyable than perhaps it started out to be.
So why does music connect even though we may never master an instrument nor replicate the sounds we hear and enjoy? It’s repetition and beat and rhythm that lingers in our soul and is awoken by our senses. Playing a song on repeat, for days, fails to bore me.
A devotion to music began with vinyl; 45’s and 33’s, belonging to my dad – prized possessions prevented from turning because they were too precious. The genre didn’t matter, and the consequence is an eclectic musical taste. Charlie Pride springs to mind, along with Crystal Gale, Dean Martin and Gene Pitney.
The Dubliners Recorded Live at the Albert Hall London in 1968 would’ve been my choice, alas it fell into the too precious category, rarely leaving its sleeve for fear of dust and scratches of catastrophic proportions. Instead, it had to be Foster and Allen, which failed to satisfy Celtic desires.
To pick a favourite is harrowing, however it will always remain, Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas, reserved for just one day each year. His Master’s Voice projected the grooves with a level of authenticity that can’t be replicated by our extensive iTunes collection. My first record purchase, a 45, the Up There, Cazaly single by Mike Brady – a classic. The first 33, Wham! Make It Big. And now I buy vinyl again, not because it’s trendy, because it’s family.
Our children love music, and I’ve had an influence. Master can listen to Gustav Holst - The Planets - Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity, endlessly, while Miss sings and dances to I’ll Tell Me Ma, whenever a guitar presents opportunity.
Each day, they practise on a 118-year-old piano, basically gifted to us. Master says it sounds far better than the expensive Baby Grand Piano he recently played at a local school. That comment made me proud. Music makes their days even better; richer, fuller, happier.
A need for music began in Grade 11 when studying. Eric Clapton’s Unplugged and R.E.M.’s Automatic for the People kept me company and maintained my focus. The methodology continued whether “studying” for Estimates or finding peace in a hectic life; music calibrates a distracted mind. Seeking motivation from Lily Allen during a state election campaign, in hindsight, evokes more than a raised eyebrow.
Somedays in the car it’s Triple J, while on others it’s Classic FM. It just depends. I feel as comfortable with Bocelli, Brahms, Bridge, Elgar, Pachelbel, Schubert or Sculthorpe as I do with Alex the Astronaut, Bon Jovi, Hootie & the Blowfish, Missy Higgins, Tash Sultana, Trampled by Turtles or U2. It all make sense.
Sometimes, I need to remind myself to listen; music is camaraderie on a long drive, the car’s welcome passenger. At home, “turn it down a touch”, or, “we’re not at a concert” are frequently heard phrases. Responding quietly, “the sound bar was designed to showcase its full potential,” gathers a mixed response. And each time a new device is purchased, Pearl Jam’s Better Man must be played to ensure perfection. Each time.
Confusingly, I feel miserable when there is a death in the music industry. That’s regular despondency. These people were not family or friends, but I’m in awe of their talent, and often their music defined key moments of my life.
The death of Prince, and Dolores O’Riordan hit hard. My friends and I were lucky enough to see the Cranberries at the Silverdome in 1996. Later that tour, Dolores apparently hurt her ankle on stage, cancelled, and headed home. Katie lost a bracelet; a gift for her birthday, the gold plate would’ve scratched off by now.
Listening to music is not a choice, and there won’t be a day when my routine is broken. Right now, it’s Florence (Welch) + the Machine, and her voice and the lyrics. Florence is sublime; divine and mesmerising, and I listen constantly.
I am very fortunate. Music is wonderful habit. My creative addiction.
Music defines who I am; it’s a routine, a habit. It reminds me of the worst times and makes me smile about the best. An elixir perhaps, art in purest form; moving, motivating, reflective and celebratory, often at the same time.
For those who don’t understand, nor experience similar thoughts and feelings, I feel saddened for you. A love of music makes each day more enjoyable than perhaps it started out to be.
So why does music connect even though we may never master an instrument nor replicate the sounds we hear and enjoy? It’s repetition and beat and rhythm that lingers in our soul and is awoken by our senses. Playing a song on repeat, for days, fails to bore me.
A devotion to music began with vinyl; 45’s and 33’s, belonging to my dad – prized possessions prevented from turning because they were too precious. The genre didn’t matter, and the consequence is an eclectic musical taste. Charlie Pride springs to mind, along with Crystal Gale, Dean Martin and Gene Pitney.
The Dubliners Recorded Live at the Albert Hall London in 1968 would’ve been my choice, alas it fell into the too precious category, rarely leaving its sleeve for fear of dust and scratches of catastrophic proportions. Instead, it had to be Foster and Allen, which failed to satisfy Celtic desires.
To pick a favourite is harrowing, however it will always remain, Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas, reserved for just one day each year. His Master’s Voice projected the grooves with a level of authenticity that can’t be replicated by our extensive iTunes collection. My first record purchase, a 45, the Up There, Cazaly single by Mike Brady – a classic. The first 33, Wham! Make It Big. And now I buy vinyl again, not because it’s trendy, because it’s family.
Our children love music, and I’ve had an influence. Master can listen to Gustav Holst - The Planets - Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity, endlessly, while Miss sings and dances to I’ll Tell Me Ma, whenever a guitar presents opportunity.
Each day, they practise on a 118-year-old piano, basically gifted to us. Master says it sounds far better than the expensive Baby Grand Piano he recently played at a local school. That comment made me proud. Music makes their days even better; richer, fuller, happier.
A need for music began in Grade 11 when studying. Eric Clapton’s Unplugged and R.E.M.’s Automatic for the People kept me company and maintained my focus. The methodology continued whether “studying” for Estimates or finding peace in a hectic life; music calibrates a distracted mind. Seeking motivation from Lily Allen during a state election campaign, in hindsight, evokes more than a raised eyebrow.
Somedays in the car it’s Triple J, while on others it’s Classic FM. It just depends. I feel as comfortable with Bocelli, Brahms, Bridge, Elgar, Pachelbel, Schubert or Sculthorpe as I do with Alex the Astronaut, Bon Jovi, Hootie & the Blowfish, Missy Higgins, Tash Sultana, Trampled by Turtles or U2. It all make sense.
Sometimes, I need to remind myself to listen; music is camaraderie on a long drive, the car’s welcome passenger. At home, “turn it down a touch”, or, “we’re not at a concert” are frequently heard phrases. Responding quietly, “the sound bar was designed to showcase its full potential,” gathers a mixed response. And each time a new device is purchased, Pearl Jam’s Better Man must be played to ensure perfection. Each time.
Confusingly, I feel miserable when there is a death in the music industry. That’s regular despondency. These people were not family or friends, but I’m in awe of their talent, and often their music defined key moments of my life.
The death of Prince, and Dolores O’Riordan hit hard. My friends and I were lucky enough to see the Cranberries at the Silverdome in 1996. Later that tour, Dolores apparently hurt her ankle on stage, cancelled, and headed home. Katie lost a bracelet; a gift for her birthday, the gold plate would’ve scratched off by now.
Listening to music is not a choice, and there won’t be a day when my routine is broken. Right now, it’s Florence (Welch) + the Machine, and her voice and the lyrics. Florence is sublime; divine and mesmerising, and I listen constantly.
I am very fortunate. Music is wonderful habit. My creative addiction.
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