Hey, Mister Tambourine Man, Play a Song for Me

Thick black notes juxtaposed on a blanket of white, littering the page with dots and straight lines, dropped almost haphazardly to create something magnificent. My recurring dream that life is a musical and I’ll wake up singing a song that everyone knows the words to and suddenly it’s not just me, it’s hundreds of people all singing and dancing along to the beat. A performance of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in C Minor, Op. 67 circa 1808 in the infamous Theater an der Wien in Vienna, Austria. Hearing my favorite song on the radio when I’ve had a rough day and I can belt out every note and every lyric and suddenly it’s just me, John, Paul, George, and Ringo thinking about Yesterday. Songs that portray the heartache of slaves in the 20^th century, proclaim peace in times of war, and capture the despair of the Great Depression, that coerce you, envelop you until you’re there, experiencing what those generations had felt years ago. Louis Armstrong and Bessie Smith’s 1925 classic recording of St. Louis Blues. The familiar rush of electric energy that surges through my body the moment before the curtain opens on me to sing the first note. The warmth of the spotlight, the silence of the audience, the reverberations of the sound as it waves through the space, bouncing off people and chairs and windows and doors and coming back to me as if by gravity. The ability of a song to say just what I was thinking, but in words I never could have imagined. Mourning, melancholy notes giving way to upbeat staccato, pulsating in my ear, moving through my veins, drumming into my heart, consuming me, painting me a picture so spectacular and vivid that it’s so very real that you feel it in every fiber of your being. The distinctive voice of Ol’ Blue Eyes Sinatra that defined an era and brought hope to a nation in the time of war. And who could describe a White Christmas better than Bing Crosby? That sweet, echoing resonance that ricochets through a cathedral or a concert hall and replays in my head for hours on end—the sound of the voice, of singing. Singing serves as an escape, a way to communicate your feelings through poetic lyrics and intricate melodies. For me, singing is a not only a form of expression, but a way of life. Whether it be making up harmony with my friends, humming the tune of a song from Les Mis or Bye Bye Birdie through the halls, or belting out jazz or hip hop or country in the car, music is constantly on my mind. Music transports you to places you’ve never dreamed of—a delightful concoction of reality and fantasy that gives you hope. When my life is miserable, music is my outlet, my escape, medicine for the soul. I’m not me anymore; I’m with curly-haired Annie, “just thinkin’ about Tomorrow”, singing my troubles away. Or perhaps its midnight in Paris, after all the shops have closed and I see “La Vie En Rose” through the darkness, humming along to Edith Pilaf on a nearby radio as the lightning bugs get lost in the stars. Next I’m flying high above the clouds over it all on a magic carpet ride, “over, sideways, and under” till I’ve forgotten just how difficult life is—lost in the moment, lost in the fairytale. Then I’m in the heart of New Orleans listening to the cry of trumpets as they sweat in the sun, watching jazz and culture unfold before my eyes in the thick July air of Southern Louisiana. No matter where life takes me—no matter where I end up—I’ve been everywhere. I know that no matter what the future holds for me, I will always march to my own beat; head up, eyes forward, facing the music as I always have, soothing the soul as the ever-present melody crescendos on and on.