Bob Kauflin, speaking on music as language

I think music functions as language, and that we glean emotions, inspiration, etc. from it, but what is the criteria for language? Birdsong is beautiful, and could move our emotions, but it may actually be some bird shouting “BUZZ OFF. THAT’S MY TREE–MY TREE–MY TREE,” or it might be empty tones. Our emotions may move during a sunset, but does that make the sunset language? Maybe. I’m open to the idea.

Kauflin’s distinction between types of language interests me. He says,  “Music cannot communicate propositional truth.” All communication requires context, though, and his next point is music can remind us of propositional truth by evoking our worldview through our emotions.

His emotionally charged response to the sonata, for example, is linked to his knowledge of God, and his creative work. So Kauflin was moved by his own analysis, and the connections he made in his own mind.

But I don’t know much (read: anything) about linguistics or music, so it’s certainly an area for research and more thinking.

We played songs from The Reckoning, and a few from the in-progress Minotaur and the Merrimack, which will be a collection of folk–or otherwise weird–tales cribbed from the Brothers Grimm, the Civil War, and our own fetid minds.  It’s been a lot of fun to write.

I was surprised at the level of interest we garnered from random passers-by.  Chris stayed on guitar for most of it, stalking up and down the corner, stomping his feet and and singing as loudly as he could, though the wind whisked his voice away.  We need a PA system, or at least some head-mounted megaphones.  Philip was, as usual, scorching on violin and mandolin, and even gave a spontaneous performance on tambourine, with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the street, circled by the circus sidewalk, and so on.  Brad hunkered down by the streetlamp and played banjo with those little claw attachments he has.  And I banged on a single snare drum with one brush and tried to stay on beat.  I played harmonica for a song or two also, which was a pleasant break from snare/tambo.

Despite all that, we actually had some fans.  One of the waitresses at Mellow Mushroom came out and listened for a while and even dropped some money into our open case (which, everyone knows, is busker code for “pay me”).   Every few people walking by put something in, actually.  And we had a few families sit on the concrete and listen for a few songs.  Their two toddler boys started slam-dancing to Absinthe in 3/4, which was excellent to see.  Especially since one of them had a curly mullet, and the other a blond bowl cut.  Throwback toddlers.  All these people put some money in, and we weren’t even playing during the post-game rush.  We made–get this–$44.  Fourty-four dollars.  Yow.

Once we got too tired to play anymore, we sat around at Mellow Mushroom for a while.  I don’t know which I like more: being enjoyed by people who don’t know and/or love me already (like my family), or all the strange and wonderful stories my friends tell.