Music & Instruments Posts on Crowch

In my childhood, music wasn’t just background noise — it was the heart of life. The kitchen radio, records playing over and over, dancing with friends at school discos — all of it created an atmosphere where I learned to feel, to rejoice, to be sad. Every song was like a little story I absorbed, not always understanding the words, but definitely catching the mood.

When I heard The Beatles, Elvis, or Joan Baez, I realized the world was much bigger than my neighborhood and school. There were feelings, protests, dreams. Music opened doors to other cultures, ideas, and moods. It taught me to be open and receptive — qualities that helped me later in life when I needed to understand people and situations.

Now, when I share my favorite songs with my grandson, I see music can connect time and hearts. He might not always understand the lyrics, but he feels the energy and mood. Music is my way of showing him where I come from and helping him find his own path. It’s not just nostalgia — it’s part of my soul that I pass on.

I often think of cities as living beings. Each has its own voice, its own rhythm, its own dreams. Paris sounds like an accordion and the clinking of wine glasses. New York is a midnight saxophone and heels clicking on wet pavement. But what happens to a city’s voice when tanks roll in? When its buildings are torn down not by architects, but by shells?

During World War II, many European cities didn’t go silent. Quite the opposite — music became the last thing to be heard at night, when everything else was destroyed. That’s not a poetic idea — it’s historical fact. And there’s something heartbreakingly human in that.

In occupied Paris, jazz was banned as “enemy music.” But how do you outlaw breathing? People still gathered in cellars, listening to smuggled Louis Armstrong records, playing old pianos in bomb shelters. Music became an act of defiance. Jazz became the language of those who refused to be silent.

I read the diary of a Parisian cabaret singer who performed every night despite the curfew. “I sang as if tomorrow wouldn’t come,” she wrote. That feeling is close to me. I, too, live at night — and in the silence, I understand the true value of sound.

There’s an old recording — Glenn Miller’s orchestra playing Moonlight Serenade in 1944. He was already dead, his plane lost somewhere over the Channel. But the music remained. Listening to it is like opening a window into another dimension, where even death steps back for melody.

Records from that era sound different. Not clean — they carry the crackle of time, the scratch of the needle like history brushing against your ear. That music wasn’t recorded for fame. It was recorded for memory.

I’ve seen photographs of Warsaw, 1945. A city in ruins. And a boy playing a violin on top of rubble. No stage, no audience, not even a roof over his head. Just him, his instrument — and the sky. These images don’t belong in museums. They belong in our hearts.

For some reason, art — especially music — outlives everything else. It tells a truth about us that nothing else can. That we were born not just to survive, but to resonate.

I’m 48. Not old, but old enough to live in the late light — like sunset sun that somehow feels warmer than at noon. I listen to music at night, when the city sleeps. And I think of those who lived in the night not by choice, but by fate.

This isn’t just an article about the past. It’s about the future. About how, even when the walls fall, a melody can still echo inside us. And as long as that melody lives — the city lives. The soul lives.