Squeak
There is a particular sound that a guitar string makes when the guitarist slides his finger into the next position. It's nothing more than a tiny squeak in the background of the music, but it's a sound I will dearly miss if I should ever go deaf. I mentioned it in an earlier post about music, and recently, a CD with an acoustic guitar focus has me contemplating the reasons for my warm response to it. Why, beyond a general love of music (and, really, have you ever encountered someone who doesn't like music?) does this particular sound always make me smile?
Physiologically, there may be some response completely separate from the thinking world. We have negative reactions to certain low frequency sounds that make us feel uneasy, so I'm sure there are other frequencies that can produce a positive response. It's a possibility that the appeal is nothing more than good vibrations, scientifically speaking. Then again, there are happy experiences in my past that could be connected to the phenomenon. My aunt would often play guitar and sing during family gatherings and visits, so it's part of the whole happy-times package of memories. I can also sympathize with the feeling of producing that squeak myself. Though I'm no musician and probably couldn't remember the simplest chord now, I did have the opportunity to learn and play guitar a bit in junior high before music programs were cut from many public schools. I know the familiar and sensual nature of holding the instrument just firmly enough and gliding fingertips along the sensitive strings. It could be that hearing those squeaks triggers memories of that pleasant feeling. Still, none of this seems quite enough to explain the affectionate nature of the feeling a squeak inspires in me. To discover the truth, I'd have to dig deeper.
First of all, a squeak is a little thing. If you're caught up in the melody, you may not even notice it. If you do notice it, you tend to dismiss it as incidental to the process of playing the guitar. I suppose that anonymity prompts a certain affection, like the tendency to think 'isn't that cute' when a squirrel peeks at you from behind a tree. Recognizing small things and their importance in the dance of the universe is an important factor in my philosophy. But I think the key to my response lies in what the sound implies.
Of course, it means movement, action. The musician moves his fingers because he plays. He is drawing living music from an inanimate object. He creates art. The squeak is evidence of his expression through music. But so, obviously, are the notes of the song. So, why the smile at the less purposeful evidence of the art? Because it is less purposeful.
That sound that I love is unintentional. It is an imperfection, really. A computer program asked to play the same song would not reproduce the squeaking string. A computer seeking to record the "perfect version" of the song would eliminate the incidental squeaks. In short, this is the human part of the music. You could compare it to a sigh in an actor's delivery of his lines, or a pause or facial expression that adds life to what's written on the page. It's part of the artist's connection to the art, and by that, to the listener. That squeak is what tells you there is a real person behind the performance. Taken to the extreme, it would be the difference between knowing a song through a polished and perfect recording or hearing it played live in front of you. This is probably why I adore that little "imperfect" sound - because it is so amazingly human, and the artist felt no need to edit it out. Precision may make us perfect, but our imperfections are what make us truly beautiful.
So, squeak, and smile.
Physiologically, there may be some response completely separate from the thinking world. We have negative reactions to certain low frequency sounds that make us feel uneasy, so I'm sure there are other frequencies that can produce a positive response. It's a possibility that the appeal is nothing more than good vibrations, scientifically speaking. Then again, there are happy experiences in my past that could be connected to the phenomenon. My aunt would often play guitar and sing during family gatherings and visits, so it's part of the whole happy-times package of memories. I can also sympathize with the feeling of producing that squeak myself. Though I'm no musician and probably couldn't remember the simplest chord now, I did have the opportunity to learn and play guitar a bit in junior high before music programs were cut from many public schools. I know the familiar and sensual nature of holding the instrument just firmly enough and gliding fingertips along the sensitive strings. It could be that hearing those squeaks triggers memories of that pleasant feeling. Still, none of this seems quite enough to explain the affectionate nature of the feeling a squeak inspires in me. To discover the truth, I'd have to dig deeper.
First of all, a squeak is a little thing. If you're caught up in the melody, you may not even notice it. If you do notice it, you tend to dismiss it as incidental to the process of playing the guitar. I suppose that anonymity prompts a certain affection, like the tendency to think 'isn't that cute' when a squirrel peeks at you from behind a tree. Recognizing small things and their importance in the dance of the universe is an important factor in my philosophy. But I think the key to my response lies in what the sound implies.
Of course, it means movement, action. The musician moves his fingers because he plays. He is drawing living music from an inanimate object. He creates art. The squeak is evidence of his expression through music. But so, obviously, are the notes of the song. So, why the smile at the less purposeful evidence of the art? Because it is less purposeful.
That sound that I love is unintentional. It is an imperfection, really. A computer program asked to play the same song would not reproduce the squeaking string. A computer seeking to record the "perfect version" of the song would eliminate the incidental squeaks. In short, this is the human part of the music. You could compare it to a sigh in an actor's delivery of his lines, or a pause or facial expression that adds life to what's written on the page. It's part of the artist's connection to the art, and by that, to the listener. That squeak is what tells you there is a real person behind the performance. Taken to the extreme, it would be the difference between knowing a song through a polished and perfect recording or hearing it played live in front of you. This is probably why I adore that little "imperfect" sound - because it is so amazingly human, and the artist felt no need to edit it out. Precision may make us perfect, but our imperfections are what make us truly beautiful.
So, squeak, and smile.
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