In All Uncertain Terms

I stepped through the bright red doors of the sanctuary, almost giddy with excitement. We made our way down the aisle, the children arguing about where to sit, before settling into a pew. We made light conversation, I laughed at the playful bickering between siblings, and admired the stained glass windows and wooden rafters. Protestants don’t build churches like that anymore. It’s a shame.

The black-clad men and women filed out, some smiling, others serious, many likely a little nervous. The director came to the front of the stage and introduced himself. He seemed a genuine, humble man, contagiously passionate about his craft. He turned around, and with a wave of his hands, it began.

As the choir before us opened their mouths, I felt myself begin to get lost. Though I tried to listen to the words, they always seemed to come secondary to the sound. I would at various points break out in goosebumps, be drawn to tears, smile from ear to ear, or unwittingly hold my breath. It was as if the conductors baton was in fact a magic wand, the combination of his hand movements and the words of his followers casting a spell over my mind and body.

The next day, on a long drive, I played through my car speakers all the albums of my favorite band. Since they have been formally trained in choral singing, I appreciate their refined vocal technique, but I don’t think that’s the thing that makes them so special to me. The rhythm and instrumentation I find hypnotic, and the lyrics lead me to believe, of course foolishly, that they know my most intimate thoughts. Really, they just know themselves and the nature of humanity, but the way in which they express that knowledge is uncannily resonant. That band is like a favorite dish at a restaurant. I may try other meals every once in a while, or even frequently, but I always find myself returning to the same familiar flavors. I like to think I have free will, but it does feel inevitable.

Another of my favorites is very different in style, and I like to describe his witty and devastating lyricism as being like comedy. He uses a lot of word play, and I feel that his songs always follow a setup and punchline, though the punchline is not always humorous. The lyrics are where he really shines, yet I don’t think they’d have the same effects without his guitar and voice. I like poetry as much as anyone, but there seems to be some special combination of beautiful words, ideas, and sound that makes the thing hit hard.

Whenever I want to find a new artist I’m almost sure to like, I usually try out folks who have opened for this favorite band. Some are instant hits, while others are just okay. In doing this exercise, I recently found one particular song whose sound and rhythm were so enchanting to both me and my husband that neither of us could stop thinking about it. I love a good waltz, the rocking, the swaying. As a former dancer, I immediately feel the music, feel compelled to move. The 3/4 timing resembles a hammock or boat, and I do love to be in motion. Every time I see a performance, whether strictly acting, strictly musical, strictly dance, or some combination, the little voice in my head whispers, “Join in. Join in.” Someday I will again.

What causes this? Why does the strumming of strings, the beating of drums, the vibration of vocal cords put me in a state where I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to move, to participate? Why do they seem to crack open my mind and heart and pull things out, one by one, that I didn’t intend to be seen?

I have read scientific theories about why music has such an effect on humans, but I find none of them satisfying. A friend and I were at the library, and her youngest child was reading a book on magic tricks for kids. She expressed that even simple tricks fool her, and she usually doesn’t know how an illusion was done. I spoke my agreement. Much like how Penn and Teller reveal shadowy machinations of a magician, leaving him with a now-toothless demonstration, I know that much we used to attribute to either magic or the workings of the divine can now be explained by scientific findings.

Perhaps someday it will be the same for music, and since I am always in pursuit of truth, I won’t complain–but until that happens, I’m content to revel in our real-life magic.

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