Music Camp

The Charles River

Everyone I see is holding an instrument.  People are wheeling bases taller than they are across the street.  Others have a bari sax slung across a shoulder.  Me? I sport a fiddle hanging off one arm and a MEC backpack on the other.  To complete the image, add 75% humidity, dripping sweat, and a map because I spent much of my first day here in Boston wandering up and down the same street, in front of the same cafes.  People weren’t even looking at me oddly—everyone else was doing the same.  

I’m in Boston for the next five weeks, attending the Berklee College of Music’s Five-Week Performance program.  I’m here with about 1000 other people from places like England, Morocco, Turkey, Egypt, Brazil, Argentina, Belgium, Mexico, and of course from all across the US.  There seems to a real mix of ages, as well as countries.  I’ve talked to people aged 16-22. 

I found a bench upon which to sit and read. But in the shade. 

I love how multicultural this camp is.  Walking through my dorm I hear Spanish (with several different accents), English from around the globe, and so many other exotic languages.  I love asking people where they are from.  Their answer is invariably more interesting than mine.  One girl I talked to flew 15 hours from Johannesburg to get to JFK—that’s not even including the other flights she had to take.  Incidentally, she also has a spectacular voice, as I discovered Monday afternoon in a stairwell jam in the dorm.  Spontaneous jam y’all!   We played only obscure, to me, top 40 tunes, until I put away my fiddle.  And then it turned out that the guitarists also knew some jazz chords. 

Another pic from my only activity not involving music

And the MUSIC!  I have never heard such spectacular music all in one small area.  Everyone is so good, their phrasing, their note choices, their command of the instrument.  I feel so insignificant compared to all these creative people.  Each person I hear is more… how I want to sound than the last person.  Even the café’s and restaurants have absorbed some of the Berklee atmosphere.  They all play good music!  No standard pop covers, no iffy bands.  They put on real music that I actually want to listen to. 

I met all the other string players here at camp yesterday.  We’re an eclectic group, mostly fiddles, with some cellos, basses and one harpist from Belgium.  Everyone I heard had different strengths.  Some people really flourished through their syncopated rhythms and others through their jazzy note attacks.  But everyone was really amazing.

I attended a welcome concert Sunday night showcasing the music of Motown.  Berklee alumni, students and teachers were featured.  The music was set up as a history session, the songs were performed chronologically so we could hear the musical evolution of pop.  Each song got an introduction so we could learn who wrote it and the political atmosphere that created the lyrics.  The rendition of “Love Child” (The Supremes, 1968) and Superstition (Stevie Wonder, 1972) were some of my favourites.  These two, and many others, sent chills down my spine.  I had entered the concert exhausted by the heat, but I left invigorated by the music and reminded as to why I was in Boston—to be immersed in music.