Crescendo: (n) a gradual, steady increase in loudness or force.
I do realize there’s a danger in over-analyzing things. It can become tedious, if not obnoxious. Yet I will tell you—life becomes much simpler when you first realize it’s supposed to be simple, and then you start looking for the parallels that dwell behind every experience and lurk beneath each rock.
Over the years I have played my share of music.
Some people have even accused me of being a musician.
I’ve written songs and I’ve composed about eight symphonies (though Mozart and Beethoven shouldn’t be worried about their day jobs.)
Music has taught me a lot.
That’s not a very profound statement, but once again—simple.
Music knows what the key is meant to be in every situation.
It finds a melody, so some sensibility can be mustered for the hearer.
It certainly acknowledges the need for harmony.
And it has a great desire to strike a chord of commonality among us.
But never does music teach us anything more than it does with the crescendo.
Some people live their lives full out, loud, always punctuating their crescendo to the maximum. Then when they need to say something essential or shout out a truth, no one listens because they are always blaring and trumpeting their feelings.
The wisdom of music is to start your piece quietly and build.
Let’s be honest—if the audience doesn’t want to hear the song or doesn’t prefer the tunefulness of it, playing it more loudly does not achieve much of anything. But if you can acquaint all those around you with a theme they really embrace, by the time you get to the finale, you can generate a crescendo that triumphs the message and the music to the climax.
I used to be of a mindset that the louder I said something, the more emphatic and powerful it became. But I just ended up in a room with a bunch of fellow bellowers, shouting over the top of one another.
I shall never forget the night I was playing a concert, and the band that was on right before our troupe closed out with a screaming anthem, leaving the audience leaping to its feet, applauding wildly.
I realized there was no way to top that, so I looked for a bottom. I took the stage with just my guitarist and sang our sweetest, most childlike ballad. By the time I finished, the attention was mine. If I had desired, I could have manufactured my own crescendo. There was no hurry. It wasn’t a competition.
Turn down the noise.
First in your own mind—your own twitter—and then patiently let it all tone down around you.
Take a deep breath, pick your moment, make sure it’s timely…