I’m starting to get a bit worried about how much I’m forgetting lately. I completely forgot to write a Welcome column last month, and as poor Rick will attest, I routinely forget it until the very last moment each month. (Sorry Rick!) Which is bad enough, but the truly concerning part is not that I forget to write something for the last Friday of the month, but that I often forget it is the last Friday, or any Friday, or even what month it is.
This seems to be what is nowadays called Senior Moments, but clearly I can’t classify these as senior moments without collaterally classifying myself as a senior, so I’m just calling them I’m-definitely-not-old-enough-to-be-a-senior-yet moments. (I carry that level of disbelief across the board in life too. For instance, I really can’t believe it’s not butter, but that’s a whole other story.) I refuse to call them Senior Moments because, really, I’m not that old. After all, if life begins at 60 these days (which I have reliably been assured by a lot of 59 year old people) then I have not even been born yet. But, sadly, I’m certainly old-er.
Though lately I’ve been feeling as though that really should be spelled Old-Urr because it seems that I spend my time saying “urr”, “um” and “ah” far more than anything else these days.
These I’m-definitely-not-old-enough-to-be-a-senior-yet moments wouldn’t be so bad if I only forgot the important things, or if I only forgot minor things, or if I only forgot things once, or if I only forgot things on Friday. (Sorry Rick!) If there was some sort of pattern to it I could cope, but the really irritating part is that anything seems to be fair game. One moment I can know the full 125 digit international phone number I am going to dial, have decided what I want for lunch and am certain I did not leave the oven on when I left for work. The next I am a hungry, confused person holding something that looks like a sophisticated cassette tape up to my ear and wondering if I’ll have nothing but the charred remains of a rental condo to go home to. And then ten minutes later I remember everything. Now, it sounds as though it’s all ok if I eventually remember things again, but if you believe that then you have never spent a hectic ten minutes trying to work out which of those 3 issues is the current priority and then felt the stupidity of your wasted time wash over you as the memory washes back in. Have that happen a few times a day and you may understand why my intake of red wine has gone up significantly lately. It’s not that I drink to forget so much as that I drink to forget that I forget.
So, ‘what has all this got to do with Bluegrass Music?’ I don’t hear you ask, because you are too far away and that’s not how the internet works anyway.
Well, clearly there is an awful lot of ‘needing to remember’ that goes into being able to sing lyrics and play melodies. Learning songs takes up a huge amount of brain space and I’m choosing to blame my continued learning in the realm of music for my increasing forgetfulness in the world of everything else. There’s only so much room inside my head and if I insist on putting in another couple of verses of Barbara Allen, a few new licks to add to Cripple Creek to spice it up a bit (why? why?), and ways to play that nifty F#augmented9 chord high up on the neck then clearly something will have to give.
There are a few ways of making the available space last longer though. I had the joy of attending the always awesome Fiddlestars Camp in Nashville a few weeks ago. It was the 5th year I had been, and as I was leaving I realized I had learned a lot more than usual. Instead of the normal blur of half-learned tunes, some fuzzy knowledge that any day now I was going to understand that theory stuff and a hangover, I was taking away a half dozen solid tunes and a really strong grasp of closed-position licks. And no hangover. Not bad for 2 ½ days. I felt an amazing sense of triumph about my newfound prowess on the drive to the airport. “This is it”, I thought to myself. “I’ve finally broken through into the world of legitimacy. I have become a fiddle player. I can do this. I really am a musician. Scratch that, I am a music god!”
Somewhere about the third left turn in the security line my smug self-satisfaction came crashing down over me as I realized that maybe the lack of a hangover was significant. “Perhaps I am not actually about to become the next-best-hottest thing in the world of Bluegrass”, I thought as the 172 people in line around me frowned in disapproval at my thoughtlessness and shifted their massive roll-aboards, overflowing back-packs, overflowing shopping bags, giant (and unnecessary) overcoats and pungently awful full Chinese meal in an overflowing box to make space for me and my fiddle case. “Perhaps I just did better this year because I didn’t drink any absinthe and I did get some sleep.”
Now, you would think this is actually good, though somewhat surprising, news. Wouldn’t it be great news to know that there is a simple and really effective way to make musical progress? If the secret to getting better is to practice (it is actually, but I’m pretty sure nobody ever mentioned that to me in the early years) then maybe the secret to getting a lot better is to practice in a sober and well-rested condition? No no no I tell you, that is the worst news ever. Firstly, it means that I would be a much better player now than I am if I had worked that out earlier, which is too depressing to even contemplate. And secondly it means I would have to rethink my whole approach to camps and festivals. How on earth am I expected to go to IBMA this year and enjoy it if I have to choose between getting a good night’s sleep and Mr. Sun going on stage at 2 a.m?
Can’t. Be. Done.
And if it so clearly can’t be done then I don’t think it is supposed to be done.
Which gets us back to whether or not I insist on putting all of that extra musical information inside my head at the expense of other things.
Which should I choose? Sleep? Sobriety? Learning fewer tunes? Or should I decide that the mature (mature I said, not senior) and sensible response is to ration out my dwindling brain space and do less with music so that I can do more with the relatively unimportant tasks of earning a living, getting through my normal daily life and not burning my condo to the ground?
Well dear reader, clearly there really is only one sensible choice to make and so that’s the one I’m going with.
Thanks for your time, my name is……um……E-something, and I hope you will read my……written writing thingie…. next ……ah…end of the week day…whatever…. Let’s pick!
