Matthew Jellick

Often, to escape from the cacophony of concrete saws and jackhammers which riddle the landscape in Shenzhen, I put in my earphones and listen to music, more melodic and rhythmic than anything coming from the street. I am able, for the length of a song, album, or concert, to be transported mentally and spiritually to another dimension, leaving my cares behind, or at the least, paring them with an Afrocentric beat.

Music is perhaps the only true global language, and it doesn’t need to be translated, as it is conveyed conceptually, not linguistically. Similarly, it doesn’t have to follow any prescribed rules or regulations, and oftentimes, it is the improvization that speaks the loudest, valuing the fluidity of change and appreciating the risk of unknown.

My own global adventures have led me to the doorstep of the “Father” of Ethio-Jazz, Mulatu Astatke, whom I was privileged enough to see play numerous times in Addis Ababa. His harmonic vibraphone resonated through my time in Africa, and still today, can convey me away quicker than a transcontinental flight. Similarly, seeing the saxophonist, Kamasi Washington, perform in Hong Kong, speaking truth through his horn, brought me back to Los Angeles, where we are both from, even though the concert hall was on the other side of the Pacific Ocean.

With notes rooted in Africa, played in Asia, but reminding me of California, it was a powerful performance which spoke, once again, to the global influence of music.

Music is timeless, too, and the name of an album by Sérgio Mendes, the Brazilian Bossa Nova musician whom I saw play in South Korea. As a kid I remember seeing his records in my parent’s vinyl collection, but it wasn’t until I was an adult when I was able to value the authenticity of his music, and the influential reach it has.

Also, in South Korea, I was able to see Bob Dylan, both a poet and a prophet, and his rich story-telling through songs. I had gone to his concerts before in the States, but somehow it hit differently in Seoul; a rich narrative describing the indescribable, like a simple twist of fate.

Yet if Dylan is my favorite as an individual, it would have to be the Grateful Dead who acts as the epicenter of my musical universe. The words coupled with music are the definition of “Americana,” and have been a consistent guide for me since I learned to appreciate music, acting as a soundtrack to this journey called life. For those who know, no answer is necessary, and for those who don’t, no answer is possible.

No matter the location, the hour or the day, music has a special quality which can break down ideological or physical barriers and instead, unite through its special communication not with ears, but with souls. A soundtrack to a morning coffee, an evening walk, or a midnight dream, I encourage you to have a listen.