'Lived Upon Fiddle-Strings Instead'

There’s pleasure in watching anyone perform a difficult task while making it look effortless. The first example who comes to mind is Sonny Rollins. I saw the tenor saxophonist perform three times at the Troy Music Hall when he was already in his early sixties (he’s now eighty-nine). His energy, discipline and undiminished gift for improvisation allowed him to perform without an intermission for three hours, often while playing solo. Rollins is one of the reasons I retain a little hope for our species.

To extend the logic of that admiration, there’s no one I envy so much as a gifted musician. My former boss’ husband is a guitarist and has a separate building at their farm for his music. My younger sons and I followed Simon into this barn-like structure. He walked directly over to one of his many guitars, strapped it on, plugged it into an amplifier and, without prompting, performed a loud, note-perfect version of “Voodoo Chile.” Then he started taking requests. All of this was done as casually as I might brew a pot of coffee.

    

On this date, Jan. 16, in 1786, William Cowper wrote a letter to his cousin and confidant Lady Hesketh. Cowper was emerging from what he called a “pit” – yet another episode of severe depression:   

“Occasionally I am much distressed, but that distress becomes continually less frequent, and I think less violent. I find writing, and especially poetry, my best remedy. Perhaps had I understood music, I had never written verse, but had lived upon fiddle-strings instead. It is better however as it is. A poet may, if he pleases, be of a little use in the world, while a musician, the most skillful [sic], can only divert himself and a few others.”