Somewhat Silent

Life is about the constant realization and re-realization of subtle things, or things that we’ve lived with for so long that we barely even notice them anymore.

On Friday I went to a recital where a classical concert pianist performed, and was startled by a sudden clear juxtaposition of two sounds: The soundtrack of the performance, and the soundtrack of the voice of the man that introduced the pianist.

The English language, and the language of music.

His voice was by no means harsh. It was low-pitched and most likely very pleasant. But because my ears cannot make words out of the collection of sounds, all I heard was that it was out of tune. Erratic. The agitated warbling of a sparrow whose nest has been disturbed. It hadn’t even the peaceful quality of white noise, which is hypnotic in it’s repetition. The pauses and emphasis, the differing sounds of consonants and vowels, sibilants and plosives- they acted together to create almost an anti-music. Jarring, uncomfortable, I felt a headache growing inside my skull as if I were listening to the amplified sounds of a demolition team tearing down a high-rise just a few feet away.

And then, silence.

And from the silence, the music welled. I don’t know if your perceptions of music/song and the spoken word mirror mine, or if they’re different- and the juxtaposition less jarring. But for me, music is something different from sound altogether. It sweeps one’s senses clean, no matter how little of it I can hear- it retains it’s melody and it’s purpose even as my ears drop out certain frequencies and break up the song.

And I realized, more clearly than ever before- that without meaning, the human voice is simply an instrument to my ears. When in song, it follows the rules of music. When speaking, it’s an instrument played badly and out of tune.

It’s that simple.