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A secret cello
Aug. 19th, 2013 06:48 amI found a cello in May. It had been there for 20 years, and I'd never heard it.
I got a copy of U2's "Achtung Baby" in 1993. My father died in February, and I remember making a cassette copy of that CD to play on the plane ride, because I didn't have a discman. I listened to it after I got back, sometimes several times a day. I listened to it before I cut my waist-length hair off and then shaved my head, and I listened to it afterward. I didn't really like the messiness and noise of it at first, but I was drawn to it, then soothed by it.
I haven't listened that much in the last few years to music that's been in my life since my teens and early 20s; there's too much new stuff crowding it out, new hooks to follow and obsess over. I had to make a conscious effort a few months ago, to put on my iPod Nano some of the music that iTunes said I hadn't played in the three years since my old computer died and I had to start a new playing history.
I also ride the train, with it's rattles and drones and people having conversations, so I got some noise-blocking earbuds. I'm not a music conneseur, so I don't invest in expensive headphones, and the first pair I got were pretty good, the second pair somewhat better. But when they died, I got a pair of also-inexpensive Koss buds, and I realized there was a difference when I first listened to a Tori Amos album and was like, Oh, hey, right, she plays piano. I frequently hear bass lines and harmonies that I haven't noticed before, and each time it happens it stops me and makes me smile.
I got off the subway in Davis Square in May, headed to the monthly Queer Open Mic where I was going to read a piece of my own writing. I'd started up "Achtung Baby" on the ride there, and I walked up College Avenue wrapped in a cocoon of nostalgia and angst and comfort. And then someone started tuning a cello. It was behind me and to my right, and I stopped and looked back and across the street, expecting a busker. But there was no one there. And even though I'd turned, the cello was still behind me and to the right. It took me a full fifteen seconds to first suspect and then be sure that it was coming from my earbuds. By that time, it was overtaken by the drums and staticky guitar and vocals, but I could catch glimpses of it peeking through like a somber sun through bright clouds. I was aware that my head was tilted to the right as I walked, and that I was wearing the type of grin people don't normally have when they are not talking to someone else. But I couldn't help it. It was like leaning against a wall in the house you've lived in half your life, and hearing a click, and a hidden door opens across from you, with stairs leading to a cool stone cavern, and realizing you've walked above it hundreds of times, thousands, and never known it was there.
I got a copy of U2's "Achtung Baby" in 1993. My father died in February, and I remember making a cassette copy of that CD to play on the plane ride, because I didn't have a discman. I listened to it after I got back, sometimes several times a day. I listened to it before I cut my waist-length hair off and then shaved my head, and I listened to it afterward. I didn't really like the messiness and noise of it at first, but I was drawn to it, then soothed by it.
I haven't listened that much in the last few years to music that's been in my life since my teens and early 20s; there's too much new stuff crowding it out, new hooks to follow and obsess over. I had to make a conscious effort a few months ago, to put on my iPod Nano some of the music that iTunes said I hadn't played in the three years since my old computer died and I had to start a new playing history.
I also ride the train, with it's rattles and drones and people having conversations, so I got some noise-blocking earbuds. I'm not a music conneseur, so I don't invest in expensive headphones, and the first pair I got were pretty good, the second pair somewhat better. But when they died, I got a pair of also-inexpensive Koss buds, and I realized there was a difference when I first listened to a Tori Amos album and was like, Oh, hey, right, she plays piano. I frequently hear bass lines and harmonies that I haven't noticed before, and each time it happens it stops me and makes me smile.
I got off the subway in Davis Square in May, headed to the monthly Queer Open Mic where I was going to read a piece of my own writing. I'd started up "Achtung Baby" on the ride there, and I walked up College Avenue wrapped in a cocoon of nostalgia and angst and comfort. And then someone started tuning a cello. It was behind me and to my right, and I stopped and looked back and across the street, expecting a busker. But there was no one there. And even though I'd turned, the cello was still behind me and to the right. It took me a full fifteen seconds to first suspect and then be sure that it was coming from my earbuds. By that time, it was overtaken by the drums and staticky guitar and vocals, but I could catch glimpses of it peeking through like a somber sun through bright clouds. I was aware that my head was tilted to the right as I walked, and that I was wearing the type of grin people don't normally have when they are not talking to someone else. But I couldn't help it. It was like leaning against a wall in the house you've lived in half your life, and hearing a click, and a hidden door opens across from you, with stairs leading to a cool stone cavern, and realizing you've walked above it hundreds of times, thousands, and never known it was there.
