But we're in agreement about the numberless nights of my early childhood when I would run for the safety of her bed, fleeing some terror or another that had manifested itself out of the thin air of my room. Her room was safe; for some reason mine was fair game for any number of disturbing nocturnal phenomena (never mind that my older brother, whose bed lay a scant four or five feet from mine, unfailingly slept like a log).
Some of these disturbances were recurrent in nature, which only fueled my anxiety. And so it would happen that on many of these nights, when my sister would ask me what was wrong, my reply would be the same: "The music won't stop."
"The music" in question seemed physically quite real and audible enough that I was surprised my brother could remain undisturbed by it. I have a clear memory of this music that would hound me: real melodies, in the form of bell-like tones — something like a vibraphone — that would ring quite loudly, as if a tiny, spectral Lionel Hampton had set up shop directly in the threshold of my ear.
I recently "googled" along these lines, and from what I have been able to glean from the likes of Wikipedia, et al, these were probably auditory hallucinations—a neurologist, no doubt, could explain them. But all I knew at the time was that they scared the shit out of me. After all, people make music, and if it's the middle of the night and there's no one in the room but you and your snoring brother, then who's ringing the bells? Ghost? Fairy? Devil?
By the way — for the comedians out there — no, I never heard voices.
The closest I come to hearing phantom bells anymore is whenever fellow Ditchflower, Steve Connelly, and I engage in the occasional friendly game of guitar wars. Since those early haunted nights, many other auditory forces have come along to possess, harass, and otherwise derail me from sensible pursuits—more often than not, they have emanated from British rock stars in a long line from Paul McCartney down to Thom Yorke.
The closest I come to hearing phantom bells anymore is whenever fellow Ditchflower, Steve Connelly, and I engage in the occasional friendly game of guitar wars. Since those early haunted nights, many other auditory forces have come along to possess, harass, and otherwise derail me from sensible pursuits—more often than not, they have emanated from British rock stars in a long line from Paul McCartney down to Thom Yorke.
In some ways, "the music" hasn't stopped badgering me to this day. It tests, taunts and consumes me…body, soul and bank account. I lavish unjustifiable quantities of time and energy on writing, performing, recording, teaching, and listening to it. In these pursuits, I often risk alienating loved ones. Financially, though, I'm elated to report that I've "broken even." (That may not be strictly true, but that's the official version and I am going to stick with it.)
Still, I don't hesitate to throw myself at it, again and again, day after day, year after year. Songs suggest themselves to me, the tiny green stem of a tune will poke its way through the barren expanse of an average day, and I will be unable to resist trying to nurture it into something strong and beautiful enough to stand on its own alongside all the wonderful creations I have loved in the Garden of Song. Perhaps there's no good reason, no justification I can offer for this obsessive behavior. If you happen to be a fan, though, two things: first, thank you. Second, never fear — I think you can rest assured the music won't stop.
