I have been reading aloud Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books to my boys over the past year. I read them myself growing up, but I have forgotten most of the stories; I am enjoying them at least as much as my boys are—possibly more. Although I realize the books are based on Laura’s actual childhood and not an exact memoir per se, I am still amazed at the type of life lived by this seemingly run-of-the-mill family of the late nineteenth century. Ma is steady, brave, and resourceful in making a home for the family from the Big Woods of Wisconsin to the prairie of Kansas and beyond. Pa works faithfully and innovatively through the seasons to provide food and shelter from the elements—and some fun, as well.
Pa tells stories and plays games in the long winter evenings, but throughout the series it is Pa’s prized fiddle that weaves through Laura’s childhood memories: Pa’s fiddle playing serenades the girls as they drift off to sleep; it entertains guests and enlivens holiday celebrations; it brings home along with them even when “home” is living out of the wagon. Laura’s entire musical experience for the first portion of her life includes no symphony performances, no commercial jingles, no radio jazz, not even a church piano—it is only the voices of her family and the singing of Pa’s fiddle.
My own children’s experience with music in their short lives so far has been very different than Laura’s. Although some of their early favorites would have been familiar to Laura too (like, “Yankee Doodle” or “Oh! Susanna”), they learned these songs mostly from recorded versions I plugged in on car rides. They have both attended the symphony and belted along to the theme songs of their favorite cartoons. They sing with the congregation and accompanists every Sunday. They have a variety of instruments available to experiment with and learn about, and they have seen videos of professionals performing their top hits. They have had their share of musical exposure, but the majority has been quite different from the informal, unprofessional, real-time experiences of Laura and people like her from centuries past. I would like to take some time to reflect on how different our present-day experiences are with music and contemplate what we may be missing out on when we stop making our own music.
What Real-Time, Non-Professional Music is Like
Entertained a friend on the piano lately? Probably not. If you were to do so, at some point your fingers would fumble. You might turn around and laugh as you start a section over again. Maybe your friend sings along but is a bit off-pitch and cannot remember about a third of the words. It does not help matters that your piano has not been tuned for years and has a sticky E above middle C. Once the toddler bumps his head on the coffee table, the concert is indefinitely suspended!
Would it not be easier just to start a coffee-shop jazz YouTube video in the background?
Or take another scenario. You visit your aunt’s church on Sunday, and the musicians begin to play. One of the instruments is a bit out of tune, the percussionist is a little too ambitious, and one of the supporting vocalists jumps in a measure early. You do not know the song very well, and the key does not fit easily into your register, so you jump between octaves a couple times before you decide to take your lower register and mumble along the best that you can. It was a lot more fun singing along to the worship songs on the radio.
Apart from these outlier circumstances, our modern musical experience is one marked by ease and accessibility. We hear perfect musical performances every day, even if it is just a carefully crafted commercial jingle or generic elevator music when the doctor puts you on hold. All this perfect music is so easy to listen to—the voices are perfectly on pitch, the chord progressions are generally familiar ones to which our ears are already attuned, and the whole production has been presided over by a metronome, ensuring a smooth and enjoyable listening experience.
There is nothing wrong with perfect music, really. We live this way because for hundreds of years people have been refining the tools and techniques that could bring such amazingly performed and produced music to our homes, cars, and Walmarts. The only problem is that now our own attempts at making music seem to fall so short of the experience to which we are accustomed. Playing guitar for a friend to sing along—not so anyone can hear you, just to enjoy the music together—can be so awkward; gathering a handful of musicians of differing capabilities to work on bringing a new Getty hymn to your congregation is so much harder than attending a Getty concert for a church outing—and it usually will not sound as good! So why keep up the imperfect practice of making your own music?
What We Gain from Making Music Together
Humans can partake in only a few physical, synchronized acts communally: marching, dancing, eating, fighting and sports, kneeling in prayer, and making music (have I missed any?). Each of these activities requires matching energy and disciplining our bodies in order to join with the community. When we sing together, we are matching our very breath with our neighbors; when we make music of any kind together, we are also matching our thoughts, and, in special moments, even our feelings. We are choosing to tell one story together for a set time with our words, the rhythm of our breath, and the movements of our fingers, arms, and legs.
Furthermore, how we choose to shape sounds in time to make music turns around and shapes us back. We may choose to sing or play a piece of music that expresses how we feel, but that music will, in the same moment, affect our feelings and desires, for good or ill. We can also choose to make music that does not reflect our current emotional state, hoping instead that the music will help us to feel as we should. Besides music’s affective power on the emotions, the structure of music itself provides a lens through which we perceive structure in the world. Musical pieces can teach us that the world is a harmonious place of darkness and beauty, or that it is a harsh place of pain and confusion, or something in between. When a group makes music together, we are choosing to affirm a view of the structure of the cosmos.
Making music is a formational boomerang. When we sing and make music together, we both produce and receive the affective qualities of the music we have chosen. When we create music, we practice bending our own wills to that of a common end. We bind our hearts to a story about the world and to the people around us. It is a powerful experience that we are poorer for neglecting. What can we do to provide more opportunities for experiencing music-making together?
What It Takes to Enjoy Music Together
Having a shared library of songs helps us tremendously to enjoy music together. You can bring out your favorite indie tune, and others can listen and enjoy, but in order for people to participate together in spontaneous music, they must have enough shared background to know and enjoy the same songs. Pa plays folk songs; Ma sings hymns. These two categories of songs were once widely known and shared as a community. In order to recreate moments of shared singing, we have to appeal to the shared canon of our culture’s music.
Additionally, many people have to have a basic level of skill with an instrument. Today, piano lessons or violin lessons can feel like a way to “elevate” your child’s education; something a little fancy and refined to add to their resume. But teaching children the basics of musical literacy prepares them for a social relationship with music in which they have the skills necessary when the opportunity presents itself to engage with others through the language of music.
Finally, making music with others takes intention. We have to create enough silence in our gatherings that a bit of guitar playing has room to come into being. We have to be with other people, in person, on purpose! We have to be willing to be the encouraging smile and listening ear when others bring music to a situation (even clunky children), or even the one to join in or begin the music ourselves. We must have the confidence to push past the awkward starts and the imperfections of live music because we know there is a deeper good to be had.
Conclusion
Like me, your main instrument (for me, the piano!) may not be as portable and convenient as the fiddle. Like me, you may continue to be enthralled at the fact that all the world’s best recorded music sits in your pocket. Nonetheless, I hope we will both push on with our own imperfect, real-life music making, knowing it is a gift and experience uncapturable by any recording device—and think of Pa.
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