On Music, Aristotle, and Spinning

“I need a miracle,” he said with two fingers, like a victory sign that had fallen over, lifted in hope above his head.  The sky was slate gray above, but around the stadium, the hues of a moving rainbow prevailed.  It looked like the air was shimmering with each movement of men in shorts, colorful shirts, and glassy eyed smiles, and women with the confidence, or trust, to leave little to the imagination.  It was Mars to me, and it was wonderful.  A veritable embarrassment of riches for the eyes, ears, and nose.  I hope the tie-dyed guy found the tickets he desired and, eventual, got his miracle and came to the show, because on that day, in the stifling summer air of Washington D.C., I remembered why music is not only important to all of us, but how joy is a necessary part of a well lived life.

My guy’s tie-dye and flip-flops looked out of place for RFK stadium, but perfect for the others surrounding the venerable grounds that summer day.  Thousands were there, setting up an orderly small city full of more variegated blues, greens, and yellow/oranges of tie-dye, rough but sturdy hemp sandals, and special magic brownies.  Young and old, smiling and laughing in deep and abiding comfort, with each other, with the place, with the moment.   For me, it was an absolute astonishment.  The place pulsated with energy, it was intensely alive, and the promise of joy made a deep impression on me, despite my attempts to ridicule hippies and grown people acting so inappropriate.  Aristotle said that happiness is the by-product of living a good life, and these folks were happy.  Surely, this is not what Aristotle had in mind. 

On the other hand, Aristotle had a good sense of humor and a highly developed sense of irony.  In his Poetics, the great Greek speculated that comedy originated with the discovery of sadness, and with the Komos, a odd, and hard to fathom spectacle of men singing and dancing and rollicking around in a festival of mirth.  The scene outside of RFK that day might have been familiar to our man Aristotle after all.  The story of how I ended up in the middle of a Grateful Dead Concert belongs to the 90’s and to the caring ministrations of the small group of friends trying to force me back into the world.  In a never ending attempt to make me cooler, or at least more attractive to women, the thought was that exposure to the Dead would open my mind.  I liked the Dead’s music, on the radio, but I never would have seen myself at a Dead concert, certainly not in the recently divorced, raw, and mostly reclusive state in which I resided at that time.  What brought me to the one place I had sworn I would never enter you ask?  That is, as they say, a good story.

It is not that I dislike music.  I am, in fact, a former musician myself.  I attended a very good music school, before going straight and ending up at the University of Virginia.  I’ve seen Led Zeppelin, sung along with The Alarm, and bopped with Taj Mahal.  I love the blues, jazz, and the opera—man, do I Iove the opera.  I have seen George Straight and Chris Ledoux, and I love it all, but really thought of myself as a more evolved consumer than that.  Music school had drilled into me the idea that listening to music was a serious occupation, not one for a lot of levity.  One must “see” the musical ideas.  No wonder I love Wagner and the Germans. 

On this day, however, I noticed something else.  Everyone did listen carefully, with real intensity—intensity of the type I had only seen in rehearsal rooms.  And they smiled, laugh, cried, and twirled.  The twirling fascinated me, and to this day, I can only recall it with wonder, because it seemed so right.  Amazingly, two hours earlier I would have laughed and made a joke about hippies, but not now.  Not when I saw that rarest of events, a community breaking out right in front of me, and one based upon the most pure motivations:  shared joy of the moment and hope for the future.  The Dead played Box of Rain, and Ripple, which, I was informed by knowledgeable friends, never happened.  Bob Dylan sat in most of the show, and Bruce Hornsby played piano.  It was not only a great show, but a real moment.  In less than a year, Jerry Garcia would be dead, and the joy of that show would never be repeated.  But, I took this away from the show, and have never let it go since: joy is a possibility, and music is hope.  That show saved me. It gave me back music and from that time on, I have never lost the hopefulness of music’s possibilities. 

Soon, my friends found themselves on the stadium floor dancing and singing.  I sat back in the seats, taking it all in, and, perhaps, feeling a bit out of place despite my sheer pleasure in listening to the music.  I closed my eyes and recalled Aaron Copland writing that “professional musicians, on the other hand, are, if anything, too conscious of the mere notes themselves. They often fall into the error of becoming so engrossed with their arpeggios and staccatos that they forget the deeper aspects of the music they are performing.” I felt a light tap on my shoulder, and as I opened my eyes, a young woman appeared.  She wore a head scarf, smelled of sun screen and dirt, and hope.  She asked me what I was doing, and I answer that I was listening and thinking.  A smile broke out and she replied, “think while you dance.”  Soon, I was spinning and spinning, and instead of being dizzy, I was clear headed and open to anything.  I no longer needed to listen, I was the music.  The song ended and my new friend gave me a hug, and spun away to her next spiritual intersection.  I wish I had thanked her for that gift— music with the touch of human kindness.  Did she know that her appearance and gesture  helped cure a hardened heart and broken spirit?  I hope so.  I like to think that my day at the Grateful Dead concert opened my heart to the possibilities of hope and joy again.  At the very least, I have a soft spot for all things hippy, and that is not a small thing.

Am I cooler?  Not by any measurable metric.  But, I am able to go to the Bonneroo Music Festival, take in both Phish shows, see Merle Haggard, and dance at the Andrew Bird show, and not feel at all out of place or without hope.  In Virginia, the incalescence of the season is upon us.  The soppy, brooding heat can make you crazy, or make you loose your way.  But do not despair.  There is music, and there is hope, and there is always the possibility of spinning without dizziness.  In Istanbul, the Sufi Whirling Dervishes teach that by spinning one can learn to love everything by being closer to God.  That is not such a bad idea.  Perhaps spinning and music are linked, or at least they are possibility manifest.  So, why can we take a hot summer afternoon, and spin with a friend at a concert?   You might find something that you did not realize  you had lost.