Music has always been a thread woven through the fabric of my life, pulling me back to moments both vivid and forgotten. The memories it stirs are as random as they are profound, often triggered by the simplest things.
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I recall several memorable moments in my life that revolved around music. It’s fascinating how random memories emerge in relation to whatever is on one’s mind at any given time.
When I was younger, we lived in a house with a detached garage behind it, where my father had built a music room — or what became a music room — where I set up my drums. We had a family band that played for the Croatian club, among others, for many years, and we practiced in that small room. But, as always, my favorite times were spent alone.
It was during some of these solo jam sessions that I discovered my singing voice, though it was often swallowed up by the reverberant chaos of the live drums. I had to sing at the top of my lungs, unabashedly, without worrying about volume control. It was wonderful because, without concern for who might be listening, I could close my eyes, settle into a rhythm, and completely lose myself in it. Any artist will tell you this is why they exist: to transcend the present moment, suspend time, and disappear into their chosen medium. When we create, we hope that, when the dust settles, some of it will remain to share with the world.
At the time, I had a mishmash drum kit — part Ludwig, part something else. I didn’t care, nor did I know much about brands, tunings, or even matching drumsticks, because I could make music with anything. It turns out my voice remains one of my favorite instruments.
I remember the smells, the dust, and the impressive spider webs. My father had some old gear from his band days in the 1970s, along with wine bottles and winemaking equipment. There was shag carpet on the floor, plain drywall on the walls, some of it marred by overspray from a fermenting juice demijohn that couldn’t handle the pressure. Acoustically, it must have been terrible. Even so, it was a haven for an intensely introverted soul who desperately needed a place to release creative energy and escape the noise and distractions of the world around him.
Some years later, while working in a studio, I had the chance to record and produce my first albums. I’m primarily self-taught, and this was no different. The learning curve was steep but thrilling and deeply fulfilling. Most memorable were the days when I’d watch the sun set and rise again while working on mixes or trying out new ideas for arrangements or backing vocals. I’d forget that sleep was even necessary — and yet, I was never tired.
I believe we must make time and space for our true selves. Life can overwhelm us, keep us busy, and we know that much of it is completely unnecessary. The moments we remember happen when we stop thinking and simply, nakedly, are there — fully present. That’s where the magic is.
Life can repeatedly pull us away from this magic. That’s not to say every breath we take isn’t its own universe, but we don’t always live with that level of awareness, do we? The world, with its constant demands and challenges, will always ask for more — more of our attention, more of our time — and, if we’re not careful, it can steal from us the most valuable things in this short life.
So, whenever possible, we should recapture some of that magic and lose ourselves in it.
Musica est vita
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“My World” from Fleshwound