A few weeks ago, I was playing a gig with Your Neighborhood Saxophone Quartet. We were playing outside, at the SOWA art galleries in South Boston. People would wander by, listen as much as they liked, then move on. One woman had a four year old girl, and a baby. She said they heard us through their window and had come to find the music. The girl was dressed in a pink tutu-ish outfit. She listened for a moment, then started dancing, and as long as we played, she danced. No matter what kind of music we played, she danced. In or out, grooving or textural, we played and she danced, until the baby started crying, and, very reluctantly, she had to leave.
Awhile later, two little boys came, and they laughed, and danced. And I started to wonder, what happens to us? How is it that we all start out as children who freely dance and sing and cry and laugh, and then we stop. Something happens, we internalize a voice that tells us to behave, to be still, to be quiet. To listen, and afterwards, clap.
I wish we could all dance, as freely and joyously as the girl in the pink tutu. That’s really why I do what I do.