Issachar Miron

Many things inspire uneasiness, hesitation. Often these are things no one ought to do. My fear of crossing the street in Boston is a well-founded pillar of self-preservation. My reluctance to show up late to a gig is well placed. But there is another category of thoughts that provoke a similar but distinct emotion. In these cases, the aversion occurs despite a deeper gut feeling compelling the action in question. Kissing a girl for the first time. Auditioning for a competitive ensemble or conservatory. Here it is a fear of failure or rejection, not self-preservation, that inspires the hesitance. Generally, in these cases, the greater the aversion, the more there is to be gained by the act.

As a jazz musician, I've encountered many such moments of queasiness. Dealing with the language of Charlie Parker has always been tortuous in this sense. His music offers so much invention, melody and harmony, but also an insurmountable feeling of inadequacy. Similarly, there have been many times when I felt an initial disinclination to sit in at a jam session solely on account of how talented and accomplished the other members of the band were. Clearly, in these cases, the fear serves as an indicator of value to be gained by opposing it.

My grandfather, Issachar Miron, a composer of klezmer and Jewish liturgical music, has continually insisted that I compose music to lyrics. Every time I visit him, he demands that I write lyrics. The thought is terrifying. Presenting myself naked, without the cover of intellectualism or virtuosity, subject to embarrassment. He is clearly right. This is not the same survival instinct that keeps me from eating sushi at the supermarket. My visceral reaction to his proposition is the surest evidence its rightness.