Finding A Universal Language

 This September, I travelled to Nara, Japan on the invitation of a jazz jam session. I had only known the jazz club members at Kansai Gaidai for a week, and had previously made what I had felt was a slightly embarrassing entrance at my first chance of playing (turns out jazz is kind of hard when you haven't played in several months...). But truthfully, I was glad to have the chance to play piano again, even if it was a bit of a disastrous beginning.

I had been told that we'd be heading into the countryside, and that we'd be making jazz. That's it. I popped on the limited express towards Demachiyanagi with a few other friends from the jazz club, and we prepared our selves for a two hour long train ride.

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After stretching our limbs out at our final train station, we found ourselves at a sturdy wooden gate in the quiet evening of the Nara countryside. Stepping over the threshold, I realized that I was coming upon a massive privilege: finding myself standing in a truly traditional Japanese home, one that was well over 200 years old. 

Introducing myself, I sat down on the sidelines and watched as everybody set up cords and speakers, testing instruments and flipping through jazz standard books. After listening to a few charts, somebody gestured in the direction of a piano and asked me if I wanted a turn. Despite every part of my being screaming at me not to do it, I said: "Sure, why not?"

The next six hours seemed to fly by.

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Being in Japan has been an incredibly experience, albeit a tiring one. My Japanese has improved quite a bit, but using the language requires what feels like ten times the normal brain power it takes to speak in my first language. I strive to stay diligent, but after awhile, the foreign language tends to wash over my ears without ever reaching my brain. 

When I went to this jazz session, I had only started picking up my Japanese skills in small bits and pieces. I was nervous about hopping on the piano and not knowing how to keep up with the other musicians in the room. The beautiful thing about music, and even more so jazz, is that the language is easily shared. There are no requirements for knowing specific terminology or the ability to read sheet music, rather the music is helped along with a healthy dose of passion and a sprinkle of intuition. Conversation was a bit difficult at times, with me profusely apologizing for my poor language skills, but as soon as we were counted off and moving, it all melted away. When making jazz, you utilize eye contact and physical communication through expression and posture, but it really comes down to the music that carries the message. No matter how big or small the group, the musicians pay attention to their peers, finding opportunities to fill holes in the sound or to lead the next soloist in. It's a form of trust, knowing that if you put in your share, others will be there to back you up. 

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In my humble opinion, the most difficult part of making music is playing the first note. I have a huge amount of respect for conductors and other positions, as it can feel absolutely nerve wracking to be the one in charge of making sure everybody starts off on the right foot. In jazz, a short intro is usually played before the piece begins, and so much depends on those few measures of music. When I find myself in charge of starting out a piece, there's always this extra shake in my hands, no matter how many times I do it.

In the same way, making that first initial foray into a foreign language is also the scariest part. I remember running a script in my head countless times before I could ask a question to a retail worker, or trying my best to speak with friends, just to realize that I was difficult to understand. It was embarrassing at times, and I made plenty of mistakes, but it was all worth it. 

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Even though I can't always control what happens, I strive to end experiences and interactions on the best foot I can. I love public speaking and meeting new people, but playing a piano in front of others and trying to figure out how to make friends leaves me shaking in my boots. 

The last time I played piano in front of a crowd was at a festival on campus. In the free time between shows, anybody would hop onto the instruments and jam, flipping through the books of charts and songs. I was aimlessly noodling at the keyboard, and my friend asked me if I wanted to play anything in particular, as we had a few minutes left before the official session. After scanning the pages, I settled on Georgia On My Mind. 

The next few minutes, I achieved a flow state, allowing the music to take me where it pleased. I looked up at the end, not realizing a small audience had formed, filling the room with soft applause. Of course, I made a few mistakes regarding my timing and chords, but it didn't matter. I was able to take a song that was special to me, share it with fellow musicians, and present it to others as a gift.

I had been terrified to join the jazz band, but it ended up being one of the best decisions I made while at Kansai Gaidai. Some of my closest friendships, most special experiences, and deepest happiness came from making music and exchanging conversation with those students. We could make mistakes, play and speak in earnest, knowing that even with bumps and obstacles in communication, we shared a common language.