The notes poured over me, sweet and mellow, echoing with a resonance that raised goosebumps on my arms. This music, mostly improv, was, in a word, exquisite. A symphony of sound combining elements of reggae, classical, folk, and jazz.
As one who'd never before experienced the musical stylings of Bobby McFerrin, I spent most of my first concert with eyes wide, unable to shed the smile that sprang straight from my overflowing heart. To hear this conductor-turned-solo-vocalist is like savoring a gourmet meal with a good friend. McFerrin doesn't just sing. He delights in each note, relishing its sound, its sweetness. Rolling it over in his mouth before sending it on its way.
McFerrin speaks to me of freedom and beauty and the kind of joie de vivre I'd love to capture in my own music—and in my life. And his ability to take such obvious pleasure in each, sometimes miniscule, nuance of an endeavor seems, at least to me, nothing short of a miracle. A lesson in what I can only term genuine thanksgiving.
