Stars Do Twinkle In The Concrete Jungle

A couple of nights ago I was invited to a listening session less than 10 steps from my front door. My neighbor invited me over to get an earful of the latest building gossip (one of the pros and cons to apartment living) and to indulge in the listening pleasure of her granddaughter string away at the Viola. Unbeknownst to what lay ahead, I knew that at the very least I could expect some variation of one overrated childhood sing-along or another. I gulped the last bit of the Cabernet Sauvignon in my glass and readied myself for what I was certain would equal that of a tortured alley cat.

In entered 12 year old LiLi: clad in bamboo knockers, pre-pubescent acne, and her Viola in tow, she was most ready to make her impromptu debut. Just as I'd predicted, the performance was ridden with frequent awkward notes, unwarranted pitches and a wandering commitment to the tune. I thanked my lucky stars for vintage fermentation.

In spite of the less than perfect demonstration, and completely out of nowhere, something wondrous happened. There was a delightful shift in my listening experience and, no, it wasn't the booze. It was instead a clearer perspective of what was before me; a revelation even. It was a realization that there's more. There's a greater creative outlet that expands much farther than the typical goal line kids from the 'hood seemingly only aspire to. They deserve the opportunity to be excited with the same ignition through art and culture and music as they are with sports. As a caveat, please don't misunderstand me. I am quite grateful and thankful for the Snoop Dogg's and high school sports stars turned employee's of the world who are giving back to the community through athletic activities. But, again, I declare, there's more.

After 30 seconds or so I tuned back in to the listening soiree and realized that 1.) The liquor had worn off and 2.) Children in the ghetto are just as likely to be excited through the use of instrumentation as their privileged Westside counterparts. They just need to be introduced.

It then hit me: The same kid whose tiny bedroom is shaken nightly by the rambunctious sounds of helicopters combing the streets for gangsters, has been stimulated by a tiny vessel of classical music. It was she who unveiled for me the possibilities of more bling in the 'hood sky. I, too, realized I had actually heard first hand the most breathtaking rendition of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" one ever did hear.