Jessamyn Rains

I learned to be a musician in Central Illinois in the 80s and 90s. I had many teachers: a decrepit old lady who played eleven instruments; a chain smoking jazz drummer; a few heavy metal guitar guys; a stressed-out band director or two; and, of course, some church ladies with tight perms in red culottes. And then there was the guy who started the whole thing—my dad—a phenomenally talented pianist who, in midlife, exchanged his long black shiny grand piano for a keyboard (a Yamaha, I think) and some really loud speakers.

Growing up, I found music to be both a source of pain and elation. For instance, I played drums in the school marching band. This means that, in junior high, I walked down the streets of my hometown in navy polyester bell bottoms with a big feather plume in my hat while completely rocking out on the tri-toms. (Like I said: Pain and elation. Both.)

I found my “True North,” as they say, when I began writing poetry in high school, and a couple of years later, when I began writing songs. Like many who aspire to write and create, I was chasing after beauty, expression, and truth. An outlet for all that Midwestern pain and elation. An attempt to capture discrete moments and convey something true via the juxtaposition of them. This is why I call my music Folk Impressionism.

I’ve been writing songs for twenty years now, and not much has changed. I am still looking for the right words, still chasing after that elusive melody. And though I no longer take formal lessons, I still have teachers who are many and varied: the local blues musicians who play in smokeless bars; the classic rock guys gigging out in small towns; the church choirs; the chanting monks and nuns; the odd German society accordion player; and, most recently, a group of Rwandese immigrants, singing and dancing their hearts out at a Sunday night church service.

The gift of music is everywhere, and it is for everyone.