"Musical Landscape" by Kass Spencer-Mathews
My client Eddie is a young man, about 23 years old. He lives with two other men about the same age. Eddie is autistic.
He loves to take my cheap keyboard and make it play a pre-programmed rhythm called "Swing". Very simple. Bass drum, ride cymbal and one single lonesome snare drum beat in every 16. Rather hypnotic. Eddie loves this beat. He'll hold the keyboard up close to his face and play one or two notes continuously together. He has also chosen the way these notes should sound - not just the basic piano sound that is the keyboard's default setting when it is switched on, but another sound, one that Eddie has chosen specifically for his purposes.
For a few weeks of this, that was actually the problem - my trying to determine Eddie's "purpose". I found it impossible to engage with him when he was doing this. He seemed happiest in his own autistic landscape of repeating patterns and dissonant extended tones with no release. I tried all kinds of things, I realise now, to see if I had his attention.
Then, I just let go of wanting that.
I accompanied the electronic beat on a drum - normally my beloved small djembe, or a darabouka that is portable as Eddie tends to move around his house a great deal in the course of our sessions. I checked in with him regularly to make sure he didn't mind my following him. But, I just play. Today I also played my wooden flute - and then, best of all, used my voice.
As part of my Lifemusic training, I had one whole day in the company of vocal guru Jenny Roditi and it changed the way I think about my voice. I now know that my 'range' is not measurable in traditional Western musical terms, because I can make all kinds of noises at the two opposite ends of my register that are still valuable, just not recognised, by musical norms in Europe. (Listen to women singing Chinese Opera or an Indian Classical singer - they use their voices so differently from us .. or at the other end of the scale, how about Inuit Throat Singing?)
Anyway, I now have very few inhibitions about how I use my voice. Sometimes the sounds I make may sound comical or purile to Western ears, but none of my clients judge me.
As Eddie played, I matched the note/s that he was playing vocally. Sometimes I harmonised with the notes.
At this point, to my surprise and delight, he moved his fingers around the keyboard. It was a moment of musical connection. He responded to my voice.
We went into the kitchen. I improvised rhythms on the lid of the waste bin, and the paper-towel dispenser, and patting the rhythm on the counter top he was leaning against. He ran the back of his thumbnail over the striations of the keyboard where the speakers are enclosed, and I did the same with a spoon on the draining board.
I wish it were easier for me to convey the sense of wonder I was getting from all of this. I simply had to adjust my thinking: Instead of fretting about Eddie's willingness to join me in my musical world, I merely took a tiny step towards him and ended up in his musical world. And the next thing I knew, it was our musical world.
This is a revelation, but a painfully obvious one. Of course this is what I am supposed to do, isn't it? So why does it still feel like such a damascene moment to me? I think that because, with every new client, I need to go through this process of wondering where it is that I am going to 'meet' that person. It's a journey. During that traveling time, I can often fret that I am not getting anywhere or achieving anything.
I need to remember to trust the process. Trust the music to make itself, though me and through my client. If I can just let go, and allow myself to be led - blindfolded if needs be - into the other person's musical landscape.
