OS&M Article

The wonder and power of music may mean as much to you as for me. If so, bear with me. I recently suffered a painful reminder of just how strong the healing power of music can be—how uncomfortable life becomes when the daily dosage of such remarkable spiritual medicine disappears.

For the past month, the responsibilities of professional life have destroyed any chance for listening to my precious music system. No chance, also, to attend local live music action. I've been in a music-less Gobi Desert. I do not plan to return there soon.

Look how fine is the line we tread in the "streamlined" contemporary workforce. The loss of a crucial member of our small, effective but already over-taxed staff, along with unprecedented damage done to faculty and staff computing abilities here at Notre Dame University, at the hand of the MSBlaster worm, all variants, and the Sobig.F virus, crashed my free time to the nub. It's as simple as that. This added volume of work on top of a normal "back-to-school" rush did our work crew in. Clunk! Blurg! Kapowie! No more time for me to raise my feet, drink a brew and luxuriate with world-class vinyl platters. Forget it.

For a month, I did not own my real life. I worked 26 days out of a possible 27. That's great fun, gang. That offers the perfect moment to escape into music and its healing balm. That offers absolutely no hope to do so. Catch-22. Forget it. No time to waste. No time at all.

Besides the sheer volume and mania of the work itself—hours on hours of trouble-shooting and fixing downed equipment—the stresses and frustration that come along with it all conspire to keep a fine ol' guy (me) from stealing or borrowing or inventing the precious moment to squat awhile and just listen. You think this is fun? Are you listening to me?

On the way home from the campus two weeks ago, I bought two new CDs. The plan was to get new music and renew my frazzled soul. You know the rest. I got home that night and crashed on the couch. Until I fired up the laptop today, a tired and weary guy, those albums had not been opened. Thank goodness for this deadline. Imagine if I'd not been concerned that I'd punt my assignment at OS&M? I'd still be music-less. I have a new formula to advance Shakespeare's: to write, or to dream ... writing on one's laptop, the last chance to hear music!

What I'd forgotten these past four weeks, crankily and begrudgingly going about urgent tasks at the University, was the ease of burdens that music brings ... considerably, monumentally, simply by hitting the play button on my laptop. Or tossing on an LP as soon as I walk through my door at home. "Greg," I should've told my weary self, "even if you fall asleep on the floor again, do it with the music cranked up. Listen while you're cooking, Greg. Or while doing the laundry."

I did not remember to tell myself that obvious fact of a non-musical, stupidly deprived life. I forgot to sneak music into my frazzled month. A month is a terrible thing to waste. All the while I struggled with reality's duress, I imposed more stress myself. Repeatedly I told myself I had no time to waste. No time to relax. Home to campus. Campus back home. Early to late. What's with that, anyway?

So there it is. Dumb, huh? Today, I awakened. Not just from slumber, but from insanity ... the insanity of not paying attention to music and to my inner self. Such a long stretch, ignoring my precious music, has now been broken. I've been through hell, all you sinners out there, and I've returned to tell you where it's located. Look homeward, angel.

For me, music has always been an inescapable force, a significant balm in my day-to-day life and for my emotional and mental well-being. Daily sojourns to the gym let me combat anxiety and stress. Exercise calms the beast in us and tones the body. But "mother music" heals the psyche. Harmonious, rich sound calms the nerve of nerves themselves. It's been that way as long as I can recall. Show me a man whose soul's so dead he never thirsts for music and I'll show you a dead man—spiritually.

Like me, you may recall the ubiquitous AM radio in kitchens, bathrooms, garages, and living rooms when you were growing up. Today we hear a great deal of noise. Once there was music everywhere, it seemed. As a toddler, I teethed on music. With every variation of sound recreation devices that define each era up to the current moment, these "aural illusion engines" occupied my life's physical space. They defined cultural reality. Mostly, they sat in the largest room of any home I've occupied. Great sound deserves space to live and breathe.

So it has always been music that was my emotional crutch. I confess to that fact. No matter how bad a day one has, music makes it better. Somehow music retrieves a last shred of sanity from a crazy world. No matter how joyless the day, euphoria can be dialed in or let run. Like tap water. Turn the knob. Open the valve. Crank up the music box. Let it wash over you.

There it is. Music cleans away the negatives and washes grunge off like a refreshing hot shower on a winter morning. It has never failed me yet. Not once. This month, my friends, it was me who failed music.

Here I am, like the snake-oil salesman teetering on his soapbox. I'm up here, so I'll conclude my rant. Do not make the self-deluding mistake I've made this month. Don't, O Brother sinners, allow yourself to forget the simple, essential message music brings us. Do not allow yourself to fall prey to hurried lifestyles, long commuting hours, nutty work regimes, overtime workloads. I have been there. I seek, O Music, our fierce spiritual mother, your forgiveness!

In fact, I'm serious ... all mock solemnity aside. It's silly to lose touch with the restorative, invigorating force that is music. We must make time to listen. The world will wait for us a spell. In the long run, you and those around you will be better for it, no matter how much they may seem to disagree.

Now, contrition rendered, my self re-situated, please excuse me while I disappear. It's time for some good old Rock 'N Roll. More next month, unless I cannot pry the headphones off my head

Words make you think a thought. Music makes you feel a feeling. A song makes you feel a thought.
—"Yip" Harburg (1898 - 1981)