| So let me tell you a story:
Way back in the last century (ok, 1999) I was diagnosed with diabetes. This comes with many side effects; some are benign and some are fairly unpleasant. One of the more benign side effects is that my fingernails are not nearly as strong as they used to be. If you know anything about classical guitar, you know that fingernails are an absolute requirement. You can't be a classical guitar player without having fingernails. I've tried fake fingernails or other types of extenders and the net effect of those is that they damage what's left of my fingernails even further.
In short: diabetes killed my capacity for classical guitar. I can still do some fingerstyle work, but not to nearly the capacity I used to do and without any serious ability to project, at least not on guitar; banjo is an entirely different story. I still play that extremely well and don't need fingernails to project. But traditional classical guitar? Done. Finis.
If you've been reading my diaries you've probably figured out that I'm not someone who gives up easily. It took me some time to sort this out, but I did have experience with flatpicking prior to the diabetes and even though my primary guitar technique involved fingerpicking, I knew how to flatpick fairly well.
So I went whole hog into using the pick.
But I took it a step further, with a step that was inspired by an amazing performer by the name of Pamela Means. I got to see Pamela perform in Greenfield, MA, in a fairly small room, from a table very near the show. I realized that she was using capos, but they were partial capos.
Be warned-- I'm going to get geeky for a moment.
Hmm. Never mind. That seems unwise. If you want to see the geeky explanation, I have a web site devoted to capo architecture.
Suffice it to say that Pamela's unusual technique was something I'd never seen before and never considered. She used capos in ways that allowed for variations in tunings and phrasings that were a revelation to me.
And I had to learn more.
So I did some thinking and actually figured out how to create a partial capo of my own and started experimenting with it.
 Now, let me explain something: in the ten years prior to this event, I had been playing guitar, and playing it quite well, but had not grown as a musician. I'd been practicing, definitely and I learned new pieces during this period, but I didn't find my style, my technique, etc. changing. It was certainly improved upon over those ten years. I was a little faster. My playing was more fluid. My hands were a little stronger. But I was still doing the same sort of thing I'd been doing for the previous decade.
So when I say that the addition of the partial capo changed things for me, I do not mean it made things a little different. I mean it completely and utterly transformed my approach to the instrument. This guitar, this six-stringed wonder that had been so familiar and routine for me suddenly exploded in sounds I didn't realize it could make. I was composing like crazy; seriously, new ideas were coming to me faster than I could take them all in. In that first year, I created about three hours worth of music that I could draw from in performances. I don't mean three hours worth of similar or redundant material. I mean three hours of music, with each piece differing dramatically from the other. Simple pieces, complex pieces. Jazz; blues; folk; contemporary; classical. It was like the instrument was all new to me again.
I was using phrasings and configurations I'd never even considered before and the music came out in great waves of inspiration.
I'm going to stop for a moment to explain something: in music, there are only so many notes and only so many ways you can combine them. And no matter how inventive or creative you are, you eventually run out of things you can, as a musician, can create that's truly new.
But sometimes it only takes one new thing: the Dave Brubeck quartet performing "Take Five." U2 Performing "Sunday Bloody Sunday." Django performing "Minor Swing." Beethoven using the bass as a melodic instrument.
And for me, this isn't about becoming known as a musician or famous, etc., or even making money from it. It's just the joy of the dance. Once I learned to separate the income and recognition from the music, my music got a lot better. Now, for me, it's just a lot of FUN.
But what's truly important for me is that I can go to pretty much any open mike I've ever been to, walk up there and not explain a damned thing about what I'm about to do and just do it and have people hear it and say "wow."
This is not a path Pamela Means intended to take me on. Indeed, she probably does not know who I am. We met briefly after one of her shows and I told her how much I loved the partial capo technique and how I'd created some of my own and thanked her for the inspiration, but that's it. She wouldn't know just how much it meant to me, nor would I expect her to. And I don't know how many other people I inspire. It could be one. It could be twenty. It could be zero. But I put out good works and do my best with them and hope. And sometimes the best I can hope for is to have a lot of fun doing it all.
And as much as I enjoy photography and writing, there is absolutely nothing that compares to going into a noisy bar, playing something completely unexpected and halfway through the piece realizing that all these people who were talking loudly had just stopped their conversation to listen to whatever crazy thing you're doing up there.
I speak in public as part of my trade. When in front of an audience, people are expected to listen and at least pretend to pay attention. They're generally there when they've paid to be so (when I teach) or when they need something from me (when I do tech training). When I'm in a bar, no one's got any obligation at all. When they choose to turn attention to me as a musician, it's their own intent to do so and done through desire and not necessity. As Joshua Bell recently discovered, this isn't an easy thing:
Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape: Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does your decision change if he's really bad? What if he's really good? Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn't you? What's the moral mathematics of the moment?
On that Friday in January, those private questions would be answered in an unusually public way. No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities -- as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?
(When you're done reading this diary, go read the whole piece. You will not be sorry.)
I want to explain this in no uncertain terms: to be able to get up in front of a group of people to inspire them isn't just fun. To say it's a "gift" is a massive understatement. It's one of the things that gives my life meaning.
So how do I tie that all into activism?
It's easier than you might think.
A friend of mine does a radio show called "Sometimes Live." It's a simple show. Two hours, once a week, including a discussion with local musicians and live performances.
And the thing is, she's very good at this. She's a vocalist, so she knows enough about music to have good conversations with musicians, but she also has a knack for interviewing people and her shows are a treat to listen to. Her skills aren't technical. She's just good at this. So she does it. For free. Without expecting to ever get paid for it.
It's not easy to produce a radio show, but it's something she's dedicated to doing because it promotes local artists and supports their work. And, I suspect, it's probably a lot of fun for her to do.
Think about how many lives are enriched through such a simple thing: taking one night a week to have a conversation and have people play good music. It benefits the musicians. We get free publicity. It enriches the audience: they get to hear people they don't normally hear. It benefits the community: it generates attention for local radio.
And it's very straightforward.
How many of you live someplace with a community-based radio station? How many of you live someplace with public access television? These are tremendous resources. You can use their equipment to film something inventive, produce it, with no cost to you other than your time, and just DO it.
Then you can put it on youTube and share it with all of us.
Never let anyone tell you that creativity can't transform the world. When you engage in creative pursuits, you change the world by changing you.
Back to the diabetes.
The diabetes was personally devastating. It didn't just affect my music. It affected a great many other aspects of my life. But it also transformed me and how it transformed my music was profound. I don't know that I ever would have been pushed to the creative explosion I experienced without having my ability to play challenged in the first place. I don't know that I would have become such an advocate for universal health care without the diabetes being a continual backdrop to my experience.
 So I take this experience, this tragedy, and find ways to change it into something uplifting and profound.
And when I perform, I sometimes tell this story: about change, about transition, about transformation. I don't tell people "and this is why you need to fight for universal health care" because that shuts them out of the discussion. I just tell them my story and give them the opportunity to draw the right connections.
So here I am, ostensibly someone with no power whatsoever: a short, fat, queer, diabetic who is easily ignored. So I use what talents I have: music, photography, an innate stubbornness and a belief in myself as being awesome enough to have something relevant to say. So I just do it.
I'm not courageous. If I thought this would cost me my job, I wouldn't do it. If I thought it would endanger me to talk about health issues or same-sex marriage or anything else, I'd probably back away or, at the very least, discuss everything using a pseudonym. But I'm incredibly lucky: I support myself through contract work and that contract work isn't going to go away based on my politics. Not everyone can say that.
So I just do what I know and understand and love and enjoy and hope it makes a dent in things. And I don't know that it will. For all I know, it probably won't. But art's important to me and understanding that art benefits a community is important for me. And because I'm one of the lucky ones, I can arrange performances without worrying about the money or the ticket sales, etc. I just do what seems to be right and go with it.
And maybe I'm changing the world. And maybe I'm not.
But I know I'm changing me.
And I'm doing my best to bring the rest of the world with me, whether you all know it or not. And I'm doing it through something really simple:
I'm having fun and I'm doing it in public. |
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