In difficult times, the time for music is always now
I’m 12,000 miles from my home in France. I drove to Bordeaux airport at 4 am, took a commuter flight to London Gatwick, and ran between terminals dragging my suitcase and flute bag behind me. I spent 26 hours on the only flight I could get, changed planes in Dubai and again in Singapore, and finally landed in Perth. Then, I picked up a hire car and drove another three hours to the southwest of Western Australia.
I am losing my mother, and so I have returned to that other place I also call “home”. No matter how far you wander, the motherland always calls you back in the end.
I have travelled so far that it feels like I am on the very edge of the world. Surrounded by natural beauty, I’m grateful to have arrived in time. I always knew this day would come: it’s the final throw of the dice when you choose to live your life in a distant country. So for now, here I am, trying to do my best in difficult times, though I’m pretty self-critical of how good that is.
I am dislocated. Normal service has been interrupted.
But at the moment isn’t that true for all of us? Catastrophe in Israel and Gaza, war in Ukraine, apocalyptic weather, political uncertainty, cost of living anxiety. My flute came with me, as it always does, but I ask myself if playing the flute, and caring about playing the flute, is a bit trivial right now? Is it?
I don’t think it is. For me, music has always been the light on a pathway through the darkest days; it is times like this when we are most alive to the power of art. Music expresses the feelings that we don’t know how to voice. Listening to music sweeps us up, giving shape to our emotions. It comforts and nurtures us. It cradles our solitude when we need it to, and when we need it to, it brings us together. It gives us landscapes of hope and sorrow, soundscapes for all the seasons of the heart.
And what if we come to music as players - as students, as teachers, as amateurs, as performing artists? Practising and playing our instrument takes us to another level. No matter where we are on our musical journey, making music challenges us to be our best selves, to work with discipline and focus, to open ourselves up.
Music is a hard taskmaster, and if you’re serious, a life-long one. It requires us to master new skills and conquer old fears. It shines light on the shadows of our own inadequacies and brings elation in those moments when, somehow, it all goes right. Most of all, it demands that we share of ourselves, even when that feels like the hardest thing to do.
I am frustrated when I see (and I often see this) articles and memes telling us how music in schools improves numeracy, literacy and the metrics of social mobility. I am disappointed when music educators and arts administrators have to validate their work by quantifying the advantages of musical exposure against academic outcomes. I am irritated by the Venn diagrams of violins and vocabulary, the balance sheets of maths and music.
I don’t doubt that all of it is true. There is a wealth of evidence for the mental, physical, and social benefits of participating in music.
But ultimately I think it all completely misses the point (and this is the reason I devote myself to teaching adult flutists, because they intuitively understand this).
The real value of music, no matter how we share in it, is that it connects us to the heart. Its presence in our lives should not need to be qualified by statistics of educational attainment or social justice.
Whenever we play or sing, whether alone or together, music locates us inside the essence of our humanity. There is not one hidden corner of our world where music fails to celebrate or heal, however it is expressed. By making music, we share in the beauty and energy of something that is greater than ourselves.
Universally, music is the sound of our joy, the gift of our praise, the voice of our grief.
In difficult times, the time for music is always now.
This sonority exercise, Expressive Tone from Micro Etudes: Melodic Exercises for Daily Practice (Elisabeth Parry, Aurea Capra Editions), is a yearning melody which just feels ‘right’ for this time. Its modal inflections are inspired by Jewish musical traditions. You can practice it unaccompanied or with the piano backing track below.
I also asked my friend, Wissam Boustany, flute soloist and a global advocate for peace, if I could share his performance of “Broken Child”. This work for flute and piano was Wissam’s musical response to the 2014 Gaza conflict.
“Broken Child” expresses the pain of war and Wissam’s grief for the suffering of children in conflicts everywhere. Its haunting sounds and heart-breaking melody show the power of music to speak where words cannot. It is just as relevant today.
I’m so sorry that you are losing your mother, Elisabeth. I can’t even begin to imagine what that will feel like. I’m happy, though, that you were able to take your flute with you and take solace in sound. I agree that music grounds us and is always relevant, no matter what the situation.
I fully understand what you mean by your frustration when you read those articles about music and education, but I suppose the flip side is that not everyone knows the power of music as we do. Sometimes it’s necessary to remind those who haven’t been fortunate enough to have been given that opportunity themselves? You’re right that it shouldn’t be necessary, but unfortunately in the UK, at least, learning an instrument is often seen as being a privilege rather than an educational right. I hope that one day this will change, but until then maybe we do need those articles in the press?
Take good care of yourself and I look forward to speaking to you soon.
So thoughtful and beautifully expressed. I'm so sorry for your loss, Elisabeth. What a journey, not only through travel but the realization of how important our music is to us and others. Living in this most fractured world of ours, I have often thought to be too privileged with my music, but what would we do without it. I just read a quote this morning from Nietzsche "without music life would be a mistake". Indeed.