Delirious With Joy

Musicians, as a whole, tend to have a fairly distinct voice of their own. This applies to their personal compositions more than their renditions of songs written by others, though certain musicians cannot escape the tone of their own voices even in those situations. It's an interesting thought, how each person, via their personal listening history, knowledge of music theory or lack thereof, preferences in timbre, has a voice much unlike anyone else. Of course, there are plenty of examples of Strat-slinging bluesguys in bars across this country who sound pretty similar to each other in that they all sound a lot like SRV, or examples of helicopter guitarists sweeping through arpeggios with as much gain on their amps as they can dial in who also may seem a bit indistinguishable from each other, but in the cases of those musicians who do not place the conventions of a certain player or genre above their creative impulses, it is rare to find two musicians with voices similar enough to confuse them.

Many bands and partnerships have been formed due to the spirit of a passage I found today, while Proust's narrator was absorbing a performance of the oft-mentioned sonata by Vinteuil that Swann himself was so enamored by in part one. Here, Proust reflects on the very nature of the above mentioned reality:

"Each artist seems thus to be the native of an unknown country, which he himself has forgotten, and which is different from that whence another great artist, setting sail for the earth, will eventually emerge. Certain it was that Vinteuil, in his latest works, seemed to have drawn nearer to that unknown country." (Proust, 258)

There is an additional insight here that I had not really thought of until reading today. Proust mentions that, as Vinteuil reached his latter works, he appeared to be getting closer to the language of his native, creative land. This is a sentiment that all artists of all kinds can likely relate to, whether they had thought of it outright or not. Throughout an artist's creative life, one strives to create their best work, work that expresses their vision clearest and most effectively. It could be said, then, that this journey through one's life as an artist is truly a journey back to an understanding of this native tongue. 

All of this seems quite serendipitous in timing. This past weekend I spent some hours playing music with two close friends, and for the first time in many months, felt like I was "getting it" compositionally. I felt as though I had pulled back the fog from in front of something I had been trying to see clearly, and at last made a connection I had been struggling to make. Some days, it seems like any delay I've faced in this project has been cosmically deliberate, leading me to certain insights on certain days, after certain events. Largely, though, I feel that I can merely stop at thanking Proust for the scale of his work and for the depths of his insights. It is unlikely I'd have come away from that passage without something to be greatful for no matter what day in this process I'd read it.