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But you cannot change your past, no matter how you craft your future.
But in each band you join, you will play a distinct part, and it will affect you as much as you affect it. And, as is usually the fate with bands, most of them will break up—through distance, differences, divorce, or death.
But even beginnings have beginnings. Take the prelude, an established form of musical composition. Today, it can be beautiful and elaborate, a song unto itself, yet originally—in its beginning—a prelude was something an Italian lute player in the sixteenth century called tastar de corde, “testing the strings.” Not very poetic, but accurate. One must indeed test the strings in this life, bounce the bow, wet the mouthpiece, prepare for the deeper music that follows.
because playing a song for the very first time is my greatest revelation, like discovering you can walk on a rainbow.
Silly, isn’t it? But when you’re that age and love hits you, you want to keep every little thing, every ticket stub, every flower petal, every kewpie doll you win at the arcade, whatever makes you think of it, you know?
I didn’t know he would become a star, but I had a sense he was going to be special. Sometimes you can just tell.
We looked at each other, all goofy. And I bet you think we kissed, because that’s how these little moments go. But I never kissed Frankie. I thought about it. I wanted to. But he hooked his arm around my arm and I leaned my head against his shoulder and we sat like that, kind of intertwined, with the waves crashing, and honestly, for that night, it was perfect. I felt so relaxed and so safe, like I’d known him all my life. I was totally, head over heels in love with him. And with music.
That’s why I’m here, I suppose. You’re never in love with anyone the way you are when you’re eighteen, on a beach, at night, with your shoes off. I still can’t believe he’s gone.
TALENT IS A PIECE OF GOD’S SHADOW. AND UNDER THAT SHADOW, HUMAN STORIES INTERSECT.
Why humans kill each other is beyond my comprehension, but I can testify that you have been doing it since your inception. Only the weapons change.
Truth is light. Lies are shadows. Music is both.
Suddenly it was terribly quiet, as if the earth itself were too stunned to breathe. I know this sound; silence is part of music. But just because something is silent doesn’t mean you aren’t hearing it.
Here is what I know of love. It changes the way you treat me. I feel it in your hands. Your fingers. Your compositions. The sudden rush of peppy phrases, major sevenths, melody lines that resolve neatly and sweetly, like a valentine tucked in an envelope. Humans grow dizzy from new affection, and young Frankie was already dizzy when he and the mysterious girl descended from that tree.
Had you watched the scene from a distance, it might have seemed odd, two children near a mass grave, one playing the guitar, one listening, the sun hot in the sky, the tracks of a Spanish army truck still fresh in the dirt. But I saw something else. I saw a boy all but bending the strings in a girl’s direction. It was the first time Frankie Presto attempted to give his music to someone else. Which is how I knew he was in love.
As they gazed at the grave, she hooked her fingers in Frankie’s. He squeezed hers in return. There are moments on earth when the Lord smiles at the unexpected sweetness of His creation. This was one of those moments.
She smiled as he said her name, and he smiled back, and without even knowing it, he had joined another band. From that moment on, Aurora York was in Frankie’s music. That day. That night. And forever.
But it is true. On the same day Frankie Presto found love, he lost his home. Major to minor.
This may seem highly fortuitous, but when a higher power has plans for you, life can be full of near misses.
But being silent is not forgetting.
“The secret is not to make your music louder, but to make the world quieter.”
Man searches for courage in drink, but it is not courage that he finds, it is fear that he loses. A drunken man may step off a cliff. That does not make him brave, just forgetful.
When you listen, you learn. Remember that. In music and in life.”
Silence enhances music. What you do not play can sweeten what you do. But it is not the same with words. What you do not say can haunt you.
Don’t let go of your music, chavo. Or you will let go of yourself.”
In Western music, things resolve. A suspended fourth moves back to the third. A diminished chord slides to its tonic. Dissonance to consonance. I make peace that way. Humans follow no such rules.
I have said that music allows for quick creation. But it is nothing compared with what you humans can destroy in a single conversation.
“Do not attack the strings, Francisco.” “No, Maestro.” “Coax them.” “Yes, Maestro.” “Make them hunger for your next note. Same as in life.” “In life, Maestro?” “When you want someone to listen to you, will you attack them?” “No, Maestro.” “No, you will not. You will make them hear the beauty of what you are offering, and they will want it for themselves.”
Of course, when he was truly sad, Frankie came to his guitar. Hour after hour. Day after day. Practicing, playing, practicing some more, honing the blues progressions that he heard in the clubs on Jefferson Street. For my disciples, the map is simple. All lonely roads lead back to music. I embrace you. I forgive you. I will never leave you. Can humans say the same?
There are songs that you play that you have to restart, and songs that you play that you never get right. But when a song is complete, there is no more you can do.
But all love stories are symphonies. And, like symphonies, they have four movements: • Allegro, a quick and spirited opening • Adagio, a slow turn • Minuet/Scherzo short steps in ¾ time • Rondo, a repeating theme, interrupted by various passages
“How do you know you are in love, Maestro?” “If you are asking, you are not.” “Were you ever in love, Maestro?” “Who wrote ‘Recuerdos de la Alhambra’?” “Francisco Tárrega.” “What technique must be used in that song?” “The tremolo technique.” “These are the questions you should be asking. Not love questions.” “Where does tremolo come from, Maestro?” “From the word ‘to tremble.’” “What does tremble mean?” “To shake. To quiver. To be scared or nervous.” “When does this happen?” El Maestro paused. “When you are in love.”
In the simplest harmonies, notes move up and down together, keeping the same distance, like the edges of a railroad track. A more complex version is counterpoint, where two musical lines move independently of each other, still a harmonic balance, but no longer attached as if by an axle. In the three years following their wedding, Frankie and Aurora moved from harmony to counterpoint, as the adagio completed its slow turn.
“Parlez-Moi d’Amour,” the title states. “Speak to me of love.” But speaking of love is like sticking words to the wind. Aurora waited for the final stanza. A small tear formed in her eye. Du Coeur on guérit la blessure Par un serment qui le rassure It means, “We heal the wounded heart, with an oath that reassures it.” Frankie promised he would call when they reached the first stop. But Aurora knew she would be gone.
“Listen to me, Francisco. Do you think I wanted a life of darkness? Do you think I wanted not to see my fingers or the frets or the tuning pegs, to have to poke around like a lost animal?” “No, Maestro.” “No, I did not. This is life. Things get taken away. You will learn to start over many times—or you will be useless.”
What would you give to remember everything? I have this power. I absorb your memories; when you hear me, you relive them. A first dance. A wedding. The song that played when you got the big news. No other talent gives your life a soundtrack. I am Music. I mark time.
At a certain point, your life is more about your legacy to your kids than anything else.
Rooms are rooms, after all, as a music staff is a music staff. How you fill them is what makes them your own.
HAD THEY ALL LEFT THAT DAY, OUR STORY WOULD BE DIFFERENT. But then, had many of you left places even one day earlier, the landscape of your lives would be rearranged. You cannot unplay your notes. Time, like music, is indelible that way.
Music is about communication, see? It’s about baring your soul in the notes, telling your tale. That’s how you play.
He was talking about intentions. That’s important in music, too. Critically important. What you’re thinking about can be what you become. Good and evil.
In life, as in music, there are measures to play and measures to rest.
Everyone joins a band in this life. Some of them break your heart.
“When will I be finished learning music, Maestro?” “Never.” “Never?” “You will never know all there is to know. You will learn until your final days. Then you will inspire someone else. This is what an artist does.”
I am flattered. But as I depart, I should confess. It is not in the bones. Nor in the lips or the lungs or even in the hands. I am Music. And Music is in the connection of human souls, speaking a language that needs no words. Everyone joins a band in this life. And what you play always affects someone. Sometimes, it affects the world.
