LAST AUGUST, after a few days of white-knuckle bidding on eBay, I became the proud owner of a 1950s vibraphone. That’s the instrument the old jazz master Lionel Hampton plays; it’s similar to a xylophone, but its metal keys give it a much more sustained and mellow sound than the xylophone’s wood. I’m enjoying it immensely. In the evenings, I’ll spend an hour playing old tunes by Gershwin, Jerome Kern, Irving Berlin, and Duke Ellington. And sometimes as I play, I think of . . . Condoleezza Rice. It may sound strange, I realize, to drag in the president’s national security adviser at this point, but my reasons will become clear in a moment. Although music is just my pastime now, it once was my whole future. In college, I majored in music, and I had my heart set on becoming the principal percussionist of the Philadelphia Orchestra. Back then, I spent untold hours obsessing over things like how to play the infinitesimally quiet opening snare drum rhythm of Ravel’s “Bolero” at an audition despite nervous, trembling hands. I gave myself over to music because I was in love–with the rush one feels after a near-flawless performance, of course, but especially, as a percussionist, with rhythm. It entranced me to practice difficult, four-limbed patterns on drum set until they suddenly “grooved” and became effortless; or to achieve the sensation of being in the rhythmic driver’s seat of the orchestra while playing timpani in a Brahms symphony. And I was captivated by color. Playing orchestral percussion is mostly about adding color and texture without being overbearing. At its best, a teacher of mine once explained, playing percussion is like sprinkling jimmies on an ice cream sundae. You learn how to strike a triangle so it sounds like a sparkle of starlight, or to choose just the right pair of cymbals to depict the clashes of Tybalt and Mercutio’s swords in Tchaikovsky’s “Romeo and Juliet.” Finally, there was the sheer pleasure of having not just the chance but the duty to make noise. Few things compare to the feeling of playing a crescendo on the timpani–of putting the whole orchestra on your shoulders and taking it from the softest pianissimo to a roaring fortissimo. All this fun came at a price, to be sure; after exposing my ears to so much sonic abuse, I’m certain I’ll be making an early trip someday to the Beltone man. But it was worth it. I KNOW what you’re thinking: If I was so crazy about music, how did I end up scouring prose at a political magazine? I wish the explanation involved a bit more pathos–a debilitating case of carpal tunnel syndrome, maybe, or the tragic loss of a thumb to a hastily slammed cab door. The truth, alas, is more mundane. In music school, I eventually learned the secret no one mentions when you apply for admission: It’s difficult even for prodigies to make a living performing orchestral music. And though I was a good player, I was no prodigy. This is where Condoleezza Rice enters the story, for she too was once a music major, and she had a similar epiphany in college. “Foreign policy wasn’t always my goal,” she told an interviewer recently. “I’d studied to be a pianist but realized that I’d likely end up playing at a piano bar rather than Carnegie Hall.” I know how she feels. Fortunately, we both stumbled into work we enjoy as much as playing music. For two years I concentrated solely on journalism, so getting my vibe last summer and playing music again has been almost like reuniting with an old flame. Not that things are ever quite the same. I don’t have the time or energy to play as well as I did when I could lock myself in a practice room for six hours a day. And other charms vie for my attention–among them, all the books I should have read in school when I was perfecting those cymbal crashes instead. Now that my new instrument’s novelty has worn off, occasionally I’ll go several days without playing it, only to find it staring at me accusingly from across the apartment. It’s nice to feel guilty again when I don’t practice. I love journalism now, too, so I don’t regret giving up my career in music. But whenever I remember the thrill of concerts, I can’t help pondering what might have been; and when she isn’t advising the leader of the free world, I imagine Ms. Rice does the same. Life carries us into one future and forecloses all others. Yet even amid new attachments and obligations, it’s possible to keep alive the old devotions that make us whole. At least that’s the kind of thought that comes to me when I go home at night to my vibe, and forget about the news, and lose myself in a sweet, simple song.
