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His Music, His Words

By: CoyBoat275

Rain, down my window. I look out to the sky. Fog slowly moves in as the record plays. The music low as the needle dragged itself across the disk. A scratchy staticky noise.
I turn the nob as music pours out.
A nice rainy day needs nice rainy music.
As the soft cymbals crash, the trills of the drums, like the rain on my roof. The soft yet fast keys of the piano. Chord after chord. Left and right telling their own story, intertwine.

Though no words are spoken, I hear the lyrics, though no story is made, I see the picture. As I look out to the rainy mountains. Inside my small shack I call a home. Song melting into song.
How many times have I played this record? A hundred at least. So lets make it one hundred and one.
But no matter how many times I play, I always experience something new.
The low low bass of the cello, or even a bass guitar. At times, a trumpet, muted or not. Gives a sense of energy to the mix, that cannot be mistaken.
I close my eyes, the sounds to colours, the colours to pictures, melting in together as one.
I remember what my Music teachers taught me, what they told me. Each one showed me something new.
From my elementary, playing horribly on the recorder, and yet learning more than a teacher in first grade ever needed to teach.
I remember a space age world, where music was banned. Rock, jazz, oldie, nothing was left.
Maybe its where I found my love for music.

Middle school. Marching band. The practice of being loud, brash, and better. My music teacher then did his darnedest to get first place. We practice day in and out. I practiced in and out. Played loud and hard on my dented trumpet, hard until my lips bled. We won first place that year. I never felt so happy.
Maybe its where I met my competitive side.

High School. I haven’t played the trumpet in years. I was scared. Hiding in the bathroom, refusing to play. Finally I did, and I was awful. But even so my teacher never gave up on me. Wish I had done the same. I passed with a D. But I held onto what he taught.
Maybe thats where I left it.

As the days passed I grew more hateful. Hard rock, destructive sounds. I only loved it because it was loud and brash. I wouldn’t listen to anything else. I was at my lowest, listening to music that had nothing to do with art and only looking for the loudest and heaviest.
Maybe thats when I lost it.

It was sad. Such a promising youth turning his back on music, where did I go wrong?
Fortunately, something saved me. I cannot recall what, but it did. I started to imprint myself on the music, I started to listen more and more to the words, the music, the tempo and the keys. Perhaps it wasn’t the best to imprint on, but it was helping.

And soon I found myself going back, my rock turned to punk, to pop, to classics, country, back to classical. Just like my elementary teacher played for us. I started to listen to music again, to see it again. I felt music, tasted it as it danced on my tongue. It waltz around in my head as I hummed it.

Whatever I found wasn’t the same as the young aspiring boy had found way back when, but it definitely held something just as special.

So now. I lay here. In my bed. Listening to my music once more. Jazz, as all my teachers has loved. Typing away at my phone. Maybe I was unable to convey what I wanted to day. Perhaps you call me insane. Seeing music, tasting it. He’s gone mad.
Maybe so.
But even my teachers were a bit mad, and they inspired thousands of children to carry music as far as they could.

My God rest their souls easy, for what they have done. For they gave me a creation of which can never be destroyed.
They gave me my love for music, all kinds. Every aspect, of every type, of tempo of instrument. Of piano and fortissimo. For every single whole and triple trills. Those funny black and white notes dance around, as the treble and Bass conduct them. The sharps and flats with their change.
I traveled to New Orleans, New York, the Death Star, to Galaxies farther away. Popular jokes, Never Giving You Up, and We Are The Number One. I went to the lands of the farries and fae, was in a massive traffic jam as the European sirens blared. I crossed the oceans and seas, fought to see my family once more. Sang a heartbreak song, to the one I loved, and rallied an army, to take the last offensive, dying, keeping my flag up high and proud.

And yet, I have never moved an inch.
But I’ve walked a million miles, in millions of other’s shoes.


So. I’m back home. Once again. The music has stop. The needle dragging itself on the record. The tiny bumps of statics as I turn to the record player. I carefully pick it up, clean it off and slide it back in it’s box. I put it away and pull out another. I gently place it down, moved the arm and dropped the needle onto the start, and soon colours poured from the speakers, and once again I leave my body. Walking through the heavy snow, in an endless forest. It sounds like winter. But even so I am warm. Because I know who made me love music so much, and I give them, my all.

Their words, their music.

Now my own.