My father passes me a pack of gum as he drives us to school. My brother can now sit in the front seat, and he turns the radio on to 96.3FM. In a rare moment free of advertisements, Mendelssohn’s Octet in E-flat Major plays. The notes become tinged with the mint of the chewing gum. Another piece plays, then an advertisement, then another piece. My brother diligently names everything. Bach Violin Concerto in E major. Beethoven Violin Concerto in D. I clutch at the names that are already slipping from my mind’s grasp. My favourites, the ones I hear the most, the ones I play on the violin—those names I can remember. But the countless others that drift through my mind exist to me as faces rather than names. I know them instinctively. Their melodies tumble one note after another out of my mouth when I sing. I long for Bobby McFerrin, who sang “Air on the G String” alongside Yo-Yo Ma, his voice gliding past the cello’s own in a mesmerizing dance. He lives in the world of doo-doo-doos and da-da-das. A world without words.
Evenings are for jazz, my father says, and the sentence settles in me like an age-old truth. He puts the radio on to 91.1FM and I swing gently in the hammock of the beat. The snare drum rustles like autumn leaves. The tinny trumpet buzzes to unpredictable heights like a bee. I try to picture these people I hear. I imagine Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, Louis Armstrong playing live. With notes that break and find themselves again, with air that flows impossibly deep from their lungs. I’m lost once again, forgetting the names of famous standards and who played with whom. That is until my mother gifts me an album by Nikki Yanofsky, and I play it so often that I can sing every song by heart. I try to learn everything by Ella and Sinatra, hoarding the words until no more can fit. But even with my newfound words, I don’t have peers to talk to about jazz. At this point, I don’t mind, because jazz stays in the evenings for me.
I stumble into middle school and the world no longer spins on the same musical axis. No longer is there classical music in the morning and jazz in the evening. I don’t know who Rihanna is, or Taylor Swift. People share their earbuds on the grass and hum in the hallways. There’s a radio station I’ve never tuned into, but I hear it when I carpool to ballet. My friend’s mom twirls the ends of her butter-blond hair as she sings along to “We Found Love”. Embarrassment niggles at me. I spent so long listening to classical pieces I couldn’t name. I worked so hard learning the words to songs nobody knew. I dedicate myself to learning the lyrics to songs playing at convenience stores, at shopping malls. I’m keeping up, I think. It’s all a matter of knowing what people like.
High school changes the tempo tenfold. Suddenly I am hearing words like “indie” and “folk-rock”. The girl in the plaid shirt and thick eyeliner loves a band called Kings of Convenience. The chain-smoker blonde recommends I try country, but not the bad kind. The boy with the bangs in geography class laughs when he sees my iPod only has 90 songs. With his laughter echoing in my ears, I decide to listen to everything bouncing off the concrete walls. My best discovery is that I like most of the music I hear. I add almost everything to my iPod, from Mumford and Sons to Passion Pit to The Strokes, but often only two songs from each. Somewhere around 13, I start playing guitar with my mom’s friend, and he teaches me to play Led Zeppelin and Metallica. I don’t feel meek anymore, and I revel in driving rhythms and tricky fingerings. I polish rock and heavy metal like a shiny badge I can point to if someone asks, “What music do you like?” It’s a lie, of course. I don’t know enough about any genre or musician to answer the quick-fire quizzes teenagers love to administer. Inadequacy sprouts and takes hold as I fumble for the words to describe my music collection. My music taste is a mosaic with no design. There is too much colour and too little concept. I am not the girl in the plaid, nor the chain-smoker, nor the boy with the bangs. They have pitched their tents in camps I cannot commit to. I wonder who I can be.
University is a reprieve. I discover Motown and funk and soul-pop. People here have insightful opinions on Mariah Carey, while others teach me the nuances of rap. I keep listening to different artists, looking for something to appreciate in each. When people ask me, “What music do you like?”, I find the truest words I can: it started with classical music, but then…
I rewind my journey and revisit classical music, matching pieces to their names—an exhausting but rewarding online adventure. I challenge myself to learn bossa nova and funk guitar. I organize the rest of my music into categories based on mood. I stop worrying about genres, artists, and my lack of expertise. I start listening to whatever pleases, soothes, or stirs me.
But I always reserve the evenings for jazz.
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