If words–written, spoken–are at the center of my being, it is sound that has provided the markers for my journey in this world. I associate certain sounds, and songs with just about every major experience, or mundane occurrence. Listening provides fodder for my sense of self, and music the soundtrack for things traumatic, and transcendent. If I’m drawn to the pen and notebook, or keyboard most often, I still find time to remember by way of sound the events of even the most modest of experiences.
During COVID, I obsessively compiled a playlist of Jamaican dub–Tubby, Scratch, Jammy, Scientist, Mikey Dread, Dennis Bovell, Niney–the fractured narratives, and ghostly echoes of a “Golden Age” marked by beauty, innovation, and violence. When Beth and the girls were asleep, I sat up trying to make sense of it all, and I couldn’t stop adding to that list, or listening to it for hours. I found comfort and definition in those hollowed out soundscapes that mirrored the spectre of loneliness and uncertainty that hung over us all. And still do. I wax stupidly of sound when, in the context of COVID I should be remembering the silence. Maybe my way through it was to fill the silence with the first thing that–literally–resonated with me. That list has become a valued piece of a personal archive of experience.
In February 2011 under the auspices of the US State Department, I was invited to travel to Syria and Jordan to give a series of public lectures hosted by the embassy in Damascus. The circumstances for the trip are way beyond the parameters of this post, but don’t misunderstand me, there was nothing James Bond-ish about any of it. I’m a teacher. It was an extraordinary experience, and maybe, at times, just a little scary. I’d never jetted off to a police state before, especially one that was the sworn enemy of the US of A. Almost as soon as I landed I was told to stay off the internet as much as I could, and assume that every phone call was being monitored. If it sounds overly dramatic now, remember what was happening that February. Arab Spring was in full-bloom. The autocracy in Tunisia had fallen, Mubarak had resigned in Egypt, and Libya was coming apart at the seams. The Assad regime was a wee bit tense. Three weeks after I left, the Syrian revolution began with a series of protests in Daraa.
Despite being isolated politically and economically from the West, there was a very nice Best Western smack in the middle of the city, replete with a restaurant pub where a crowd of diplomatic staffers, journalists, and an oddball assortment of people of indeterminate origins held court. It made it all the more easier for the regime to keep an eye on everybody, I guess. My room was on the fifth floor, and over the course of the week I stayed there, I never saw anybody except two gentleman dressed as bellhops who never left the common room at the end of the hall. I’m a little slow sometimes and had to be told they were probably there to keep an eye on me and anybody else who temporarily called the fifth floor home.
I love to travel but I’m a lousy tourist. I’ve learned more spending a couple of hours in a cafe, than I ever have spending a day at the museum. I want an immersive experience, and I like connecting with people. I like working when I’m on the road. It provides focus. When I know I’m going to get up and yammer at people, I think seriously about how to connect with my audience. One of the ways I try to do that is by familiarizing myself with the music. Sound is my window to the culture. Thanks to Youtube, I was able to compile a formidable set of recordings of Syrian traditional and pop music. The classical recordings from the National Conservatory were exquisite. I had a lot of fun with the clock radio in my hotel room scanning for local radio.
But then something odd happened. One morning as I was pulling myself together for the day, I ran across a file for Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five on my laptop, hit play, and felt the world stop. I’d listened to those recordings a thousand times. But there in Damascus, a city that somehow manages to give off both Biblical and East-Germany-in-the-70s vibes, it sounded different. It sounded like it fit. There amidst the minarets, I’d stumbled upon my own call to prayer. Maybe it was the dance between Armstrong and clarinetist Johnny Dodds on “Oriental Strut,” or Lil Armstrong’s over-the-top vocal on “Georgia Stomp;” it is useless to try and understand why? It just happened. I listened to those recordings over and over again, and when it was clear there wasn’t anybody else on the floor, I played them at top volume. As much as I loved my time in the Middle East, no matter how badly I want to get back there, I will always associate those sounds with that place. In the grand scheme of that particular journey, it was but a small part of the experience. I had a great many opportunities to blend (however imperfectly) into the local culture. Syrians and Jordanians are excellent and welcoming people. But one thing I’ll never forget is how something quintessentially American helped me find my footing.
Late one night as my time in Damascus was coming to an end, I was wandering the hotel halls in search of an ice machine. As I wheeled around a corner, I almost collided with one of my “bellhops.” We both apologized for startling the other, and he turned to walk away. At that point, I guess I was feeling a little too comfortable, but I couldn’t help calling out to him, “I hope I haven’t been too boring for you this week?” He turned and stared at me, and with just a hint of a smile said, “No. Louis Armstrong.” And then he was gone. Satchmo really does blow up the world.