For this month’s column, it was my intention to address the topic of artists’ unique talent for using tragedy as fuel for our craft. The memorable events and emotions in our lives serve as building blocks for our auditory, visual, written, and spiritual creations. Many of these might not materialize if not for those thorns in life which, in drawing blood, cause our spirits to recoil from the pain and seek comfort in introspection until it is safe to once again open ourselves to the world. In those moments of reflection, while we’re grappling with a chaotic stew of information, ideas, feelings, and opinions, a clarity sometimes emerges. When it does, our nature drives us to transmit that clarity thorough our preferred medium… and a work of art is born.

So, you ask, “What’s with the limits concept, and why isn’t it addressed in the first paragraph?” Bad columnist! Actually, that last statement isn’t far from the mark. In collecting my thoughts for the upcoming column, I found that someone else had already written it. Furthermore, he snared the concept with such precision and eloquence that any effort on my part to deliver a similar offering would only be a mediocre imitation. Acknowledging the limits of my literary prowess, I’ve condensed my insights to the dialogue you read in the first paragraph and will now share with you my topic using someone else’s words.

The following, titled “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”, was written by Michael Molenda, Editor in Chief for Guitar Player magazine. It appears in the Soundhole column of the issue dated December 2001.

Just like every other weekday in a life filled with deadlines and unwritten copy, the alarm wheezed out its annoying “bleet, bleet, bleet” at 5:30am. And just like every other weekday, I shaved, showered, and agonized over clothing options. Then I got into my car and repeated the daily “signal path” of freeway, off ramp, coffee, parking lot, desk.

But September 11, 2001 was not destined to be an ordinary day. And it will be a long time before moments of blissful ignorance will be taken for granted.

The media has bellowed, theorized, pontificated, and wept prodigiously about the most vicious attack ever to bloody American soil. By now, I’ll bet you don’t relish another self-involved display of literary gymnastics - especially from the editor of your favorite guitar magazine. Fair enough. In many ways, GP [Guitar Player magazine] should be a welcome respite from the realities of the world outside. But we have been changed, haven’t we? The interesting social equation is how each of us will deal with it. For some, the tragedy may weave an inescapable web of sadness, mistrust, and rage. Others may put their shoulders against the wheel of normal life, and grunt and sweat their way towards forgetting.

Most musicians, however, will not be blessed with stoicism. We’re trained to plumb the depths of our emotions so we can breathe life into the notes we wrench from our instruments. We can hear wisps of beauty within subtle timbres. We can translate aggression into splatters of distortion. We can use our brains, our guts, and our hearts to weave cinematic timbres in and out of lyrics, and around voices and solo instruments. And the best of us swallow everything that is out in the world and within our lives and reflect it back to an audience with the language of music.

So what will you do now? Will you be a healer, or a lightning rod for rage and revenge? Will your music well up with revitalized emotion, or become more coldly technical? Tough questions. And even though this issue will reach readers’ hands a month or so after the tragedy, it will probably be too soon to chart the effect of the disaster on our ability to make music.

My hope is that our depth of feeling blossoms, that our sense of charity and grace grows and grows, and that these selfless emotions are broadcast through our music. Empathy, I believe, is the best way to honor our families, our friends, and our audiences.

See you next month.

--Bryan Fries
bryan@thezone.org

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