On Genius

I’d just turned 19 and was living in an apartment in the East Village. A friend from high school—a musician now studying at Juilliard—had popped over to catch up. The last time I’d seen Michael I’d been a senior in high school. He and his bandmate had spent an entire car ride with me playing “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles on repeat, talking about the song’s genius. It was one of those conversations that felt alive with possibility and passion. But now we were a year older and even more serious, if that was possible, about our chosen art forms than before.

Michael brought a friend along with him, another Juilliard musician from New Orleans. We stopped by my apartment for a while and then strolled into the city. We talked or I listened to the two of them talk. I wasn’t confident enough then to take up space in my own life, much less a conversation. The New Orleans musician carried a strange instrument in his hand—a toy piano with a mouthpiece attached to it, I learned was called a melodica.

When we reached Astor Place, a drummer was playing a solo on some overturned white plastic buckets. He or another man like him was often there playing and usually I ignored it and walked past. But the New Orleans musician wanted to stop and listen so we did. It wasn’t long before his body was alive with the beat and he motioned to the drummer, getting silent permission to join in.

What followed was one of the most joyful impromptu concerts I’ve ever seen—a melodica and a bucket drummer duetting on the street. Michael and I were the only witnesses. I’ve rarely been to church but when I hear people describe how the spirit moves through the pews, this is what I think of. There was the music and there was the spirit running through it. I knew I’d seen something special.

The two musicians were already enrolled at Juilliard so maybe it wasn’t a stretch to see this and think this stranger from New Orleans was going to be something someday. But I’d gone to an art school where everyone was the best in whatever town they’d come from; not everyone had a spark that couldn’t help but ignite every time they performed.

A year later, watching a YouTube video a former teacher shared of a local talent, I saw that spark again. The video was just grainy footage of a teenage boy from Michigan playing “Girl from the North Country” in his bedroom. His chest was covered in tattoos. There were thousands of videos on the site just like it. Yet, there it was again, the spark. I showed the video to everyone I knew. In my eagerness to do something, I even cold emailed a few record companies who put out bluegrass, telling them they should look at this kid. I was no one and no one responded to me.

Michael and the New Orleans musician soon started playing in the same band, posting videos of the “pop up” concerts they’d hold in subway cars for commuters. When I saw the musician was playing a show, I brought my mom with me. While we were all lined up outside, waiting for the doors to open, the band appeared as if from nowhere to play us in. There weren’t more than 100 people in the audience. It’s the best show I’ve ever been to, the enthusiasm infectious. The spark.

When the musician was tapped to become the house band for Stephen Colbert’s late night show, I wasn’t surprised. The same with Michael becoming a composer and teacher, among other things. I saw him a few more times in passing, on his way to play one impressive show or another.

When the New Orleans musician went on to have a solo career, earning a Grammy and an Academy Award among numerous other honors, I thought of him playing with the bucket drummer on the street or in the subway, taking music with him wherever he went.

There’s a lot of talk about genius and what it is. Whether it’s a thing that’s always part of you or something you can cultivate through hard work. I don’t have a firm opinion but have been struck by how, sometimes, it shines so bright you can’t help but see it.

A few years ago, I was listening to the radio and was blown away by the bluegrass solo on the song. The musician, the DJ said, was the boy from YouTube. I still remembered his name over a decade later. His career had taken off and he was now headlining festivals and playing with people from Tool and Post Malone to Béla Fleck and Ringo Starr. (In case this wasn’t clear, it had nothing to do with my email at all.) If that old YouTube video exists, I can’t find it.

Was the YouTube video as good as I thought it was at 19? Was the melodica and bucket drum duet on the street outside a subway as transcendent as I remember it? Was a conversation in a van about Sara Bareilles really so noteworthy? All these things only live in my memory. But I’ve had moments, in my own writing, where after days of slogging through a story something clicked and everything I’d worked on came into focus. I’ve been given a few essays—I always think of them as a gift—which I sat down to write in a flurry of hours and were published largely unchanged, still the best work I’ve ever done.

I believe every hardworking artist who has taken the time to learn their craft has moments of genius. I’ll allow that some of us perhaps are gifted more often than others. Maybe what I saw—despite the undeniable talent of these musicians in their careers—were simply moments when these musicians were dancing with their own muses, harmonizing with the spark that’s waiting there for all of us to touch it.

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Notes

If you haven’t already seen it, I also have a new essay out! I wrote about how the changing daylight is affecting my sleep for WBUR.

“We think humans are different from non-human animals — with our clothes and cars and houses and ability to destroy or save the world — but here we are, affected by the length of days like every other living thing.”

I hope you’ll give it a read.

I’ve been having trouble focusing the last few weeks. My anxiety has once again flared up to the point where it’s hard to ignore. It feels like I can’t breathe and someone is sitting at my chest at least half of the day. The physical discomfort makes it hard to read or think and so my TBR stacks just keep growing. Sometimes reading a book “for fun” is all I can do. So I was excited to discover that Xochitl Gonzalez’ Last Night in Brooklyn wasn’t just fun but smart and well written and one of my favorite novels of the year.

It’s a retelling of The Great Gatsby set in 2007 Brooklyn with the financial crisis looming ahead. The novel book captures some of the fun and excess of a gentrifying but not quite Brooklyn-the-brand-Brooklyn while totally pulling me into the characters and their relationships. Highly recommend this addition to your summer reading schedule. (Also, now I want to reread The Great Gatsby!)

Until next week,

where have you found the muse/genius/a spark?

-Tove

Photo courtesy of Library of Congress.

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