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A Language Without Words






02.28.25I performed at the student showcase with Miguel Zenón today.

We played one of his original compositions, Mataderos. Under the weight of watchful eyes in a crowded room, especially his, adrenaline surged through me. In the last four bars of my solo, I let the trills build, pushing them to the very last beat of the final measure, as if wringing every last drop of expression from the phrase. I exhaled, but before I could fully settle into the next moment, I heard it. Miguel picked up on those same trills, seamlessly weaving them into the start of his solo. As if continuing a thought I had only just begun. The energy in that moment was electric, like a passing of the baton: unexpected, unspoken, yet perfectly understood. None of it was planned. None of it was communicated. And yet, the music knew.

This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced this in a jam session or playing with others. But today, it struck me differently. It made me realize how music, when words fall short, can describe the indescribable, and know the unknown. Music exists in the spaces between language, in the silences where meaning is felt rather than spoken.

Words can be deceptive. They are chosen, filtered, and often inauthentic. Music, on the other hand, is governed less by intention and more by intuition. It does not describe, it reveals. It does not argue, it absorbs. It not only speak, it listens.

Is music the deepest way to know someone? The highest form of understanding? Because the most intimate connection is when you can finish someone’s sentences, anticipate their thoughts before they’re spoken. Isn’t that what music is—a conversation through sound?



AMIE TIAN