New Apartment Acoustics

We live in the apartment complex of random music fanatics.

The music of this country isn't Tejano, it's Tango. Where the accordians in tejano make your foot tap and your head bob, the accordian of the Tango isn't satisfied until you understand in no uncertain terms that you're being seduced. It will pull French, then wax lazily to Italian before spinning the tangoistas (who inevitably spring up a block away from the moment you first heard the music in the air) into a simmering Latin dip. So hearing tejano music spilling into the courtyard of our complex from an open window two floors above was something of a surprise. It was really the first time I'd heard any since I left the tejano saturated airwaves of Texas.

We also have a neighbor down the hall who seemingly hosts karaoke every night. Every. Single. Night. Sometimes during the day, too. Now, we can't bring ourselves to be annoyed, because it's just too damned hilarious. Loud and hi-la-ri-ous. He is, apparently, a fan of all things 80's and 90's American pop music. Many a night was a Thriller night. I think I love this city most for its unfailing tolerance. No one is complaining and no arguments have broken out (and we know...we would hear them whether we wanted to or not). It's our own nightly entertainment, and we needn't leave our apartment.

Before I continue, let me just explain that the acoustics of this place are such that EVERYTHING echoes. We may as well be in an ancient stone monastary for all the reverberations: footsteps, water, voices...nevermind the overpowering peal of thunder. It's a musical performer's wet dream.

And so, on to the best part: an opera singer lives one floor above us. The first time I heard that clear, crisp voice spiraling up her stairway of octaves only to plummet expertly to a pillowy contralto roll, I was, understandably, entranced. Classical music and I go way back. It was almost a holy quest, trying to figure out what I was hearing...surely this was no recording! I was in my apartment when the sound hit me, and tears began to sting the back of my eyes. I ventured into the hall to find the door that might be hiding that lovely sound. I may as well have been on a game show, trying desparately to guess which door hid the corvette. The acoustics sent the sound off every wall, every door. Down the hall to the stairwell I tip-toed, but the trilling stopped. I had to stand there, hoping she'd start up again. Not knowing which of my neighbors was this songbird seemed a secret too tantalizing to go undiscovered. Suddenly the sound washed over me again, and I went careening down the stairs. Her voice was getting louder, but less distinct. Wow. The high ceiling and marble floors actually intensified the volume as the sound moved farther from its source. I raced up the stairs as quietly as I could, willing my footfalls not to echo and disrupt the dulcet tones.

Finally, one floor above my apartment, right next to the stairwell, a door was almost vibrating with the sound. But it was far more clear, and so very, very precise. You could shave the hair from a man's face with the exact edge of her notes. I've heard MANY live musical performances (thank you, Austin, Texas!), and even gave a few myself. I know that what I stood hearing, as I leaned against the rail of the stairs, was a professional of a lovely caliper. She never pressed the music, she never overbore her vocal chords. She stopped and started as though thumbing her way through an aria that she knew, but needed only refresh herself on. If only I could force my words to convey the simple purity of her voice with the complex weave of notes and technique, I know you'd almost hear it yourself.

I had to go back downstairs, for fear of a neighbor questioning my statuesque pose on the stairs, and that my own halting, unsure explanation in a language I've not yet mastered would make the singer stop.

To my utter ecstacy, she practices every day.