Music: My Safe House

“There is music in me, the music of a peasant people. I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field.”

-The Banjo Player by Fenton Johnson

TL;DR  Listen here instead.  Follow this YouTube link:   Music: My Safe House

Music is more than a friend; it’s my confidant, my sanctuary, and my saving grace.  For as long as I can remember, music has been by my side—feeling my joys, soothing my sorrows, and understanding me in ways words cannot.  She is always there, lending me her ear as I lend her mine.  Music does not discriminate, and in her presence, neither do I.

She soothes my pain and reassures me in times of need.  She is my voice of reason, my comforting embrace, and even my connection to the divine.  Music becomes exactly what I need her to be: a celebratory anthem, a tender lullaby, or a fierce outlet for anger.  She is always present. I can breathe without her, but I wouldn’t want to.

Her melodies have been the soundtrack to my triumphs and my solace in despair.  In moments of loneliness, when no one else was around, music stood steadfast by my side.  She has always been my refuge—the love of my life.

Growing up in the vibrant 80s, I was surrounded by music.  Our home was a symphony of genres: Mom would crank up her gospel records, instructing us to “turn down the treble and turn up the bass.”  My grandfather tuned into classical music stations in Los Angeles.  My aunts and uncles filled the air with Motown and funk, while my best friend’s house resonated with blues and rock ‘n’ roll.  Dad, on the other hand, favored country tunes playing softly in his workshop.

From gospel to Mozart, Motown to rock and roll, I fell in love with it all.  As a child, I would sneak into the living room, carefully place one of my mother’s records on the player, place the needle, and lean into the oversized floor speakers.  Closing my eyes, I would immerse myself in the highs and lows, isolating each instrument and trying to identify their unique sounds.

While my mother wasn’t a fan of classical music, two classical records she owned—a Mozart and a Beethoven—became my treasures.  Over time, I learned to distinguish the trumpet from the trombone, the clarinet from the bassoon, and the flute from the piccolo.  Yet, one sound eluded me—a hauntingly beautiful, low, and bellowing tone.  I became obsessed with uncovering its source.

In those pre-internet days, I scoured dictionaries, encyclopedias, and asked anyone who would listen, describing the sound that had captivated me.  It took years before I identified the cello and later the double bass.  By then, I was utterly hooked, forever drawn to the deep, resonant frequencies of bass instruments.

Low-frequency music has always moved me deeply.  Whether it’s the booming 808 of a hip-hop track or the thunderous drop D power chords of rock, the vibrations resonate through my body, enveloping me in a cocoon of safety.  In those moments, the world fades away, and I find myself in a sanctuary where no one can hurt me.  It’s as if the music whispers to my soul, “I’ve got you.”

Music has been my refuge, my safe house, and my therapy.  When the world feels heavy and my troubles mount, I turn to her.  She has never failed me.  I understand completely when people say music has saved their lives because it has saved mine countless times.

Even now, as I write, Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 plays in the background, carrying me on a swirling, otherworldly journey.  I am no musicologist—I have no desire to dissect music into technicalities.  For me, music is pure emotion, a deeply human experience that defies analysis.  It is my therapy, my escape, my lifeline.

Music's ability to comfort is deeply personal, and the type of music that soothes varies from person to person.  For me, music reflects emotions I often struggle to articulate.  Whether it’s lyrics that resonate with my pain or melodies that mirror my joy, it reminds me that I am understood.  It’s a healthy distraction, a place where my intrusive thoughts and internal battles are quieted.

To all the incredible singers, songwriters, and musicians who pour their hearts into their craft: thank you.  You’ve built a safe house where I can find peace, strength, and joy.  Music is not just sound; it’s salvation.

For that, I am eternally grateful.