Chords

I've always liked chords. Big chords, small chords, sad chords, scary
chords -- but especially big, juicy, jazzy chords. Like GMaj7/A, or
Bb13#11. The first time I heard a modern big band blast a polychord
through 13 different horns, the texture and emotional power kept me
skipping home. And the first time I made a beautiful chord sound on my
very own guitar, when I was just starting my musical adventure at age
13, I knew I was hooked. I've been writing them ever since. Ever hear
a big, thick, juicy chord sung by a vocal group? It's nasty. It's what
makes me love my occupation as an arranger, or even my job as a jingle
writer in cases where an ad calls for denser harmony.

Chords are your basic building block of songs. My mother once told me
"I need a melody I can hang my hat on." (Since my mother doesn't wear
a hat, I assume she was quoting someone else, but that's another
story.) Anyone who plays guitar or piano know that it just takes a
progression of four (or even fewer) triads and you've got your very
own original song. For many modern pop musicians the chords are the
most prominent part of the arrangement. Sometimes all it takes to
figure out what song you're listening to on the radio is to hear the
guitar strum the first two bars.

Whether we know it or not, though, we hear chords even if they're not
actually played when we listen to music. Melodies live inside a world
established by chords. That why even untrained musicians sometimes
hum unrecorded vocal harmonies while listening to music. So powerful
is the effect of harmony that it ingrains into our consciousness a
framework into which all music must necessarily fall. When we see a
new breakfast cereal advertised on T.V., we conceive of its taste --
indeed, even predict its worth -- based on how it will fare in a bowl
of milk. So it is with a lone melody, which gets it push and pull, its
caress and its climax, from a universe established by chords.

Appreciation

Yesterday, while I was working at my desk, my cell phone rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. I was about to push the "silent" button when I noticed the area code was that of the east coast college I attended. I picked up the phone and said hello.

"Is this Michael?"

"Yes, it is." The young female voice was unfamiliar to me. Probably trying to sell me something.

"This is ______. I'm a currently a senior at ______." My school. "You're a recent graduate, right?"

"That's right."

"I'm calling on behalf of the Alumni Fund. You made a donation last year." Great. Here it comes.

"Yes, I did..."

"I just wanted to thank you for your support." Pause. Is that all she has for me?

"Oh... don't mention it. It was my pleasure." Following Tim's example, I donated $20.06--a sum corresponding to my graduation year--to the fund several months ago. I don't like being coaxed into spending money, but I felt bad, and I could afford at least a symbolic gesture.

"Well... thanks again." She seemed discouraged by my silence. Here voice was young and unsure, but adult somehow, neither small nor beseeching. Suddenly I felt like I was about to lose something valuable, or already had.

"Don't mention it," I say again, for lack of anything better. "I hope you have a great senior year."

"Thank you, sir. Have a nice day."

For a while after the call ended, I held the thin black cell phone open in my hand, looking into the mirror by my desk. What was that all about? I suppose they want to let the alumni know their giving is appreciated, no matter how small. That's smart business. And they get these kids to do it--current undergraduates, probably work-study employees of the alumni office.

Something seemed a little bit off. She was a senior. So, Class of 2008. Just two years below me. I should've recognized her name. I went to a small enough school. Maybe she was a hockey player, or a science major, or one of the other types of people with whom I had limited contact my last two years in college. If my cellphone were a videophone, would I recognize her face from my hours spent in the dining hall or at the campus post office? Might I have run past her on one of my nighttime jogs on the soccer field or the indoor track?

We could've known each other. But she seemed to have no idea who I was. Maybe that's why I was vaguely upset. Some of my best friends in college were '08s. I knew all of the musicians in that class, most of the actors. I may even know most of her friends. I'm sure she knows some of mine. But she might as well have been cold calling someone who graduated 30 years ago. At least she was nice.

In retrospect I wish I had asked her about herself. Anything to make it less awkward for us both, to head off this dawning intimation of vast, unexpected distance. And to let her know that, truth is, I appreciate her too.