Music and a Hidden Medium
I feel the need to preface this post with the typical self-protective cushion of forewarning that comes with any first time blog post, especially from someone thoroughly inexperienced with this type of medium (which, to clarify, is not the medium I am referring to in the title) — I am not a writer. I have never even written a journal entry, much less attempted a piece for an audience. But inspired by the posts by my fellow PiA-ers, I have decided to give it my best. What follows is a loose deconstruction of my experience so far regarding the primary means of social connection — language.
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A bit of background: I am currently living in Thailand, in a town stretching just short of the triangular-shaped border between Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar. Chiang Rai is not a popular tourist destination — or at least, not a popular Western tourist destination. As a result, it is always a surprise when I hear a conversation in English outside the borders of the university where I teach. Almost everything here is in Thai, and if locals can muster up the energy to attempt any English at all, the most is a few scattered words before the version of the Thai smile that means “please forgive me” breaks through (I’ve counted five separate versions so far). It’s fairly obvious that if I want to meaningfully connect with any non-university Thai person during my time here I’m going to have to meet them at least halfway, linguistically speaking.
Now of course I didn’t want to come all the way to Thailand and solely end up befriending a bunch of expats, which was exactly the situation I found myself in when I studied abroad in Sydney. But man is it difficult to learn Thai. Or at least, it’s difficult for a stubborn person like me, who puts in a minimal amount of effort and expects to see clearly unsubstantiated progress in the quickest time possible. Thai is a tonal language like Mandarin or Cantonese. At first, my naïve self wholly believed, “Of course a Thai person will be able to understand what I’m saying regardless of tone — it can’t make that much of a difference!” But the mixture of bewilderment and confusion on my waiter’s face when I said “mai” (high tone, meaning wood) instead of “mai” (rising tone, meaning no) was proof that I have a long, frustrating journey ahead of me.
Speaking of which, let me introduce the sentence “Mai mai mai mai”, all spoken in different tones. This headache-inducing phrase is commonly used to demonstrate the effect of the slightest, most subtle nuances in speech, roughly translating to “Does the new wood burn?”
The day I learned this phrase I decided to invest in private Thai lessons.
Progress was (is) painstakingly slow, as expected. But now I have a reason to persevere, guided by something greater than my own desire to connect as much as I can with the community and make friends. A few weeks ago I grabbed dinner with an expat friend I made here, and after dinner he introduced me to a local music establishment, somewhat underground, almost exclusively frequented by Thais. In retrospect this was not the best idea — it was clear we were not welcome and we left almost immediately. This was the first time the usually open, friendly Thai smiles were replaced with distrust and a hint of hostility. We headed to a “safer” jazz spot next, shaking off the heavy feeling of intrusion and entering back into the Chiang Rai we had grown to trust.
The difference between this bar and the previous was apparent the instant we walked in. My friend had been there a few times before — we exchanged friendly “sawadee khraps” with the band and took seats in the almost empty establishment. The bar’s name was Baan Don Sod, or “House of Improvisation”. Black and white pictures of jazz legends decorated the walls; the trio was in the middle of jamming to a rendition of Charlie Parker’s “I’ve Got Rhythm”. It only took me a few minutes to feel like I was at home.
And that’s what Baan Don Sod today is eventually becoming for me — a second home in Chiang Rai. That first night I ended up talking to the pianist/owner, Jack, and mentioned that I play drum set and hand percussion. He immediately invited me to the stage and I spent the next two hours on the drum set trying to “prove” myself to this group of incredibly talented musicians. At one point I recall the sweat on my hands causing a drumstick to fly into the air and land definitively on the cymbal with a resounding crash. Needless to say that at that moment, I humbly collected my things and assumed that my days as a band member were over. But Jack — by far the most talented pianist I have encountered — gave me his number and told me that I would get a call from him soon.
Fast forward to today — I play at the jazz bar two or three nights a week, and the trio of regular musicians (Menn on bass, Bon on guitar, and Jack on piano) are beginning to accept that I will not leave until they explicitly ask. Last week one of the bartenders cooked a meal for everyone before the set began and invited me to join. When I got there, I was happily served three large bowls of namprick, a northern Thai dish, rice, and a sweet soup with pieces of what I assumed to be was cow tongue. Now, I’m as just inexperienced as an actor as I am a writer — but with this man’s genuine, eager smile looking on as I tried my first bites, I did my best to hide the roaring spice lighting my throat on fire and swallow the uncomfortably bump-riddled chunks of tongue. I managed to finish most of the dish before finally, finally it was time for us to play.
Jack, the leader of the trio, can speak English considerably more than the bassist and the guitarist. This is not to say that his English is good; it’s just that the bassist failed English 1 three times and the guitarist knows a grand total of four English words. For the first few weeks I tried desperately to connect with them, to join conversation and achieve that “part of the band” feeling I so badly wanted, but with little success. I found myself sitting in silence as the three of them talked and laughed. As time went on I grew content with my role as the mute observer, laughing when the others laughed and fulfilling my own social quota by basking in the shadow of what I eventually hoped to achieve. However, it was painfully clear that communication through language was halted at best, frustrating at worst.
Then last week my outlook began to change. Back in the U.S I occasionally played music with friends whenever the lone drum set in my school of over 5,000 students was available. I valued these music sessions as a form of communication just as much, if not more, than any other form of social interaction, whether it was a meal or a drink, a walk around the city, or a forced night out. Through music I was able to see a completely different side of a person, a side that only presented itself when the core medium of communication was an instrument; it was where, as clichéd as it sounds, raw emotion unearthed itself. As James Baldwin beautifully described, in a scene where a saxophonist “takes off” on a solo, “[The saxophonist] stood there, wide-legged, humping the air, filling his barrel chest, shivering in the rags of his twenty-odd years, and screaming through the horn Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?” (source at bottom). And so these informal “jam sessions” became a way to not only express my own self but to examine and absorb the emotions of others, listening and supporting and discovering features of my friends that were only revealed in that 10 foot by 10 foot square room.
I think the same can be said about the act of reading one’s writing — it provides an insight into the mind in an area where verbal communication simply does not reach. But with music, in addition to hearing the thoughts of another, one can develop a conversation, a give and take; each instrument has a role and a purpose. It is in this way I find myself communicating with the other three musicians at Baan Don Sod. The drum set becomes my voice, and dialogue is achieved through a constant back and forth with the other instruments, working individually and together to speak, create, and learn. By listening to Jack I see a part of him no amount of conversation could ever show me. His personality and brilliance come out when he sits down at the piano, and when we take turns soloing we converse and build something, using our combined ideas to draw out parts of the other person in a way that words are unable to do.
Eventually I hope to learn enough Thai to interact with the trio even after we are finished playing (a lofty goal!). It will undoubtedly be a difficult process, but for now I am content with my new voice, my new medium.
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Source: Baldwin, James. “Book 1.” Another Country. 1962, Print.
