school girlfriend, was kind of a jazz band groupie who, amazingly, fixated on me. The band went to a competition in Monterey for a chance to play at the Monterey Jazz Festival, and Julie and her family came along, and, well, the rest is history. But, you know, that’s how I viewed music back then. I liked it, but it was also the means to an end. There weren’t any conscious connections with spirituality back then. I was in many ways a pretty unconscious kid, just absorbing music like I did Zen and nature in an unexamined way.
“And yet,” said Alan sarcastically, “you said it was like, you know, super-important!”
“Did not!” We both laughed, then I continued.
“I’m trying to describe some of these formative experiences. I wasn’t conscious of spirituality when I was around Suzuki-roshi either, I just felt it. I just absorbed it without analysis. The same is true of the natural world. I was in it, like a fish in water, but not necessarily consciously aware of it, as a fish is not aware of the water. But my entry into music, which later became instrumental—pun intended—to my spiritual development, was at the time rather venal. It elevated me socially and allowed me to compete with Charlie as the center of attention, and I acquired a pretty girlfriend because of it, but at the time I completely lacked the discipline to actually become a really good musician. But what I did absorb was the possibility of becoming a good musician, just as I absorbed from Suzuki-roshi and Pinecrest the possibility of becoming a Zen-Druid! And yes, I did then and at other times in my life aspire to become a professional musician, but that same lack of discipline always prevented me from doing so. At times, when I would really knuckle under and practice, I could get to be pretty good, but I just couldn’t ever sustain it for very long.
“But I also became an excellent listener of music, which made up for my lack of performance abilities. In the early 1970s Seiji Ozawa was the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony, and he took that rather moribund institution and revitalized it. He brought the symphony down the peninsula to play concerts in the gym at Foothill Junior College in Los Altos. My mom, who loved all things Japanese, was delighted to take us all to see another Japanese phenom. Ozawa cut quite a figure on the podium, eschewing the traditional stiff white shirt and bow tie for a comfortable turtleneck underneath his tuxedo coat. But in spite of the absolutely abysmal acoustics of the college gym, the music was spectacular. At one concert he conducted the orchestra in Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet and I was simply bowled over. But other performances of pieces by Beethoven and Tchaikovsky introduced me to the realm of absolute music.”
“Absolute music?” Alan interjected.
“Music that doesn’t have lyrics and is not programmatic: it’s not trying to tell a particular story. Think of Bach’s great Toccata and Fugue in D Minor: it’s evocative, yes, but it isn’t telling a story. Its meaning comes from within each listener. For some, the meaning is in the structure itself—the complexities of a fugue, for example—but others find the music to be evocative, stirring up emotions and associations that aren’t tied to a particular narrative. But there’s something else, something only the performers can provide; something mysterious that allows music to touch us beyond logic or analysis. Musicians know this; they talk about the difference between playing the notes and playing the music. Beginners are usually satisfied if they can just get all the notes correctly, but as a musician matures, if they desire to really elevate their game, they learn the notes quickly, then concentrate on interpretation. They try to meld their own uniqueness as a person with the intent of the composer expressed on the page to co-create the final performance. In other words, they try to blur the distinction between themselves and the music.”
“Co-create? I thought the composer created the music, and the musicians just played it.”
“Not exactly. Co-creation is a critical component of music that goes beyond the notes, and it is also critical to understanding our place in the relationship with God. That’s why I’m telling you about this now, because out of music came for me what I call ‘shared learnings.’ Wisdom and knowledge acquired in one discipline become analogous and informative to another; in this case, the spiritual life. So, let me give you an example of co-creation and maybe you’ll see the analogy.
“This happened much later when I was in college in Hayward and living in Berkeley. My friend Terry and I took BART into the City to hear the great classical guitarist Andrés Segovia. The train deposited us on Market St., and the concert was at a hall at the top of Nob Hill. We had counted on the cable cars to take us up California St., but they had already shut down for the night and we had to jog all the way up Nob Hill in order to arrive late to the concert. As we finally took our seats, still panting and sweating, Segovia was already on stage, all alone, of course. He sat in a little chair with his left foot up on the guitarist’s foot rest. The man was pushing 80, and when he started to play it was clear that his technique was starting to fade. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard so many flubbed notes outside of a junior high school band concert. But I didn’t care, and neither did anyone else in the audience, because he could overcome the limitations of his technique by playing the music beautifully. It was an extraordinary experience. He owned the guitar from bridge to nut, and it willingly forgave his aging fingers in order to produce great beauty for the master. The distinctions between himself, the instrument and the music became blurred. Bach, Vivaldi and Telemann may have provided the notes, but Segovia provided the soul.”
“Well, this certainly sounds spiritual: souls and co-creating?”
“Absolutely. I ultimately discovered in those concerts in that horrible gym at Foothill, and in concerts like the one Segovia gave, that there is a very spiritual place in music, and that there is a very musical place in the spirit, for me. They are not simply analogous; they are also connected.”
The apple pies and coffee had disappeared, and although “Becky: Service with a Smile!” had been loitering around tentatively, she finally wearied of our conversation and boldly approached the table with the bill in hand.
“I got it,” I said, and placed my credit card in the little folder. When she returned with the slip, I gave her a generous tip for her patience, but I noticed that look of yearning to get away had returned to her tired face, and Alan and I got up quickly and returned to the car.
6. Embryonic Journey is the classic and iconic solo guitar song by Jorma Kaukonen of the Jefferson Airplane, written in 1962 and released on the album Surrealistic Pillow in 1967.
Chapter 4: Christianity
As we drove out of the valley into the thickening gloom of night, Alan asked, “Say, wasn’t this about the time that Christian pop music hit the scene? Since you were so into music, did you get into that at all?”
“There was some Christian rock around in the early ’70s, but it was for . . . well, Christians, so I was oblivious. And when Christian praise music started up in the early ’80s it seemed very fundamentalist and not terrifically good musically—and I wasn’t a Christian—so no, I wasn’t into that scene at all. In spite of all that, I nevertheless did get my first meaningful introduction to Christianity through a couple of pop culture phenomena.”
“I thought you said Christianity was pretty much a non-presence in your life when you were growing up.”
“Well, I did, but I guess that’s not entirely accurate. In the sixties and seventies, Christianity was still part of the basic fabric of American society. References to the Bible, Jesus and God were made consistently even in otherwise secular contexts. The fact that a band called the Doobie Brothers could have a hit in 1972, ten years before the beginnings of Christian praise music, called Jesus is Just Alright With Me speaks for itself. But all of these popular culture references to Christianity didn’t form a particularly solid basis for any kind of understanding of the faith. I never opened the Bible, never heard a sermon, and never had any substantive talks about Christianity until I was in my twenties.
“Ironically, there was a Methodist church just around the corner from our home in Los Altos. Its main attraction to me as a kid was that they had installed speed bumps in the lanes leading to their parking lot, and I spent