Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Aeons ago, when I was young and was still a serious musician, there were performances—I can count them on one hand—when the Muse was with us. We all knew it, every musician on stage; we knew. This concert was special.

Once such concert was when I was studying in San Francisco. It was in an old stone church in off Van Ness Avenue, a grand old place with soaring, pieced-stone walls and a nine-second hang time. We were playing Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantastique and everything was perfect, everyone was “on.” The audience was rapt, and we were focused, a single unit of musical prowess. We’d rehearsed so much we didn’t need the sheet music. Our eyes were locked on each other, on our conductor. We were bound by his baton. By the time we hit the second movement, we knew the Muse was there, and by the third movement, the audience knew something was different. It was superb. We played. The music soared. The symphony built, layer upon layer until, when the conductor cut the final note of the final movement, that huge, massive chord of brass hung in the center of that space like a living thing and we all froze, grinning, musicians and audience alike, letting that last note live and live as it faded away. Then, released from the spell, the audience broke the silence with roars and applause and we, on stage, began once again to breathe.

Writers often talk about Muses. We want our Muse. We ache for our Muse. We want that spark, that inspiration. We want that magic that will drive us, spur us onward, and bless us with words that will make hard women laugh and strong men cry.

Well, here’s the bad news. If my experience with the Muse of Music (that would be Euterpe, for those of you keeping score) is anything to go by, waiting for her to show up is a fool’s folly. Artistically, I lived and breathed nothing but music for over twenty-five years. I played more concerts than I care to count, spent more hours in rehearsal and practice than I care to remember, and studied every aspect of my craft for decades. And in that time, I can recall only five moments of true magic, true inspiration, like the concert I just described.

Five times. In over a quarter century: five.

Don’t wait. Write.

k