How is it that a song can sound and captivate us so differently depending on where we are in life?
I remember the recorder group at school. I was ten years old, and we were going to learn a song for the school closing ceremony. I practiced intensely, blowing until my fingers stiffened, but I couldn't get it right. It was as if the melody refused to cooperate with me. In retrospect, I understand that it was motivation that failed – no one managed to explain why this song was worth knowing. Or the value of playing the recorder at all, for that matter. This was just one lesson among many others.
Some years later, when the recorder was actually put away, I heard the same melody in a different context. Suddenly, it wasn't a lesson anymore, it was music. I found the recorder, started to blow, and for the first time, the melody flowed out completely without resistance. It had needed rest.
The same thing happened when I played the French horn at the municipal music school. A song that refused to "click" eventually led me to quit playing. It's strange how a "boring" song can become a mental wall that blocks all the joy of the instrument.
But then something happens with time. Years pass.
Many years later, I was going to play the ukulele and sing at a Christmas party. I don't remember the details, but this song made it onto the repertoire and was appreciated by both me and the audience. It was as if the song was given new life right then and there. Inspired by this, I chose, shortly after, to introduce the song to the cover band I played in – and to be precise, I was the one who brought it to the band.
From having been dreary sheet music for a bunch of pimply kids in a band, it now exploded as a rock song with a lot of energy. The song hadn't changed – but I had. My perspective had made room for more life, more experience, and a different kind of joy.
I experienced the same with a song by Evert Taube. I was supposed to perform one of his ballads at an event. It was a song I had never heard, and when I practiced, it felt forced and strange. I performed it, and I think it sounded fine, but for me, it was never real. Since then, I have played and performed it several times, and somehow gotten it under my skin. Today, it is one of my absolute favorite ballads by Taube.
What does this tell us about learning? When I teach, I often see the same thing. Students struggling with a song without it "igniting." Sometimes we are so close to a "ukulele salvation," but we lack that final click.
Certain cases are difficult to forget. Like, for example, two students who took lessons together. I struggled to keep their enthusiasm – the question is whether it was even there from the start. I chose several songs that I thought would suit them, but nothing seemed to entice them. Then, on one occasion, we went back to one of the very first, slightly dull songs we had played. But this time something happened. It was as if the song had matured in silence. Suddenly, we were playing and singing so loudly that the roof almost lifted in the classroom. The students were euphoric afterwards.
Perhaps it is true that certain songs require us to wait for them. That they need to be a little boring for a while, so that we can discover their beauty later.
My advice is this: Play a slightly boring song today. Don't give up on it. Just let it rest for a week, a month, or a year. When you pick it up again, chances are you won't just encounter a new song – you'll encounter a new version of yourself.
