When Pharrell's mother was 18, she fell in love with the choir director at church. Not because he was a terribly handsome man or a gifted speaker or even a remarkable singer, but because he sat behind the organ that rocked the entire church. He'd pedal and she'd sit in the back of the church where the big pipes were and the rumble in her stomach felt like God himself coming for her. He told her that the very lowest notes on the organ didn't make any sound that a human could hear, they just vibrated, vibrated right through you. He played them in all of his preludes because he knew she felt them deeper than anyone else in the church. He played them for her.

When Pharrell was a toddler, his mother gave him pots and pans and he made a racket so loud his aunt refused to come by and help anymore. She was busy with her own three kids and never having any money and always having a headache, and she told his mother that she just couldn't stand all the noise and how did she let him make so much trouble. His mother said, "It's in his blood," and his aunt didn't seem to think too highly of his blood so that was that. But his mother danced to his music and banged the table with a wooden spoon, and twice a week they rode the bus to visit his aunt and cousins and eat there. When Pharrell turned four, his mother whispered that she was sorry, and they moved in with his aunt and cousins and that really was that.

When Pharrell was six, his mother took him to piano sales and pretended to be very rich, rich enough to actually buy one of the pianos. Not just a red-wood upright one, but a shiny black baby grand. She explained to the vendor that his father was a concert pianist, currently on tour, and that they were just looking for another piano so he could have one at his studio and one at home. It was to be a surprise present for when he returned. Pharrell sat on a puffy black bench, feet swinging, and gently pressed the pearly white keys while his mother told stories and examined different models. When the vendor looked back at him nervously, she smiled, patted his arm, and said, "Don't worry, he knows what he's doing, it's in his blood."

When Pharrell was ten, he stole for the first time, a mini tape recorder and a stack of tapes from the local five and dime. When his mother found out, she was so angry he thought she might hit him. She demanded that he return them, but they'd already been opened. He held out the used tape and said it was supposed to be a present for her, a tape of his songs. She turned her head away and said she hadn't sunk so low as to accept stolen goods. Pharrell gave her the tape anyway, because he knew that his aunt's boyfriend stole half the clothes they wore and because he knew that nothing made his mother happier than their music, music they'd made on the bars of the fire escape, music they'd made on the cement stairwell, music they'd made on the bathroom tiles.

When Pharrell was ten and he stole for the first time and he made his first tape, his mother went to his school and said, "My son has a gift," and begged for them to send him some place with a music program. When Pharrell was ten and he stole for the first time and he made his first tape, his mother went to the fancy piano stores and said, "My son has a gift," and begged for free lessons. And when Pharrell was ten and he stole for the first time and he made his first tape, his mother came by his bedroom, tape in hand, and said, "Son, you have a gift, and that's a better present than you could ever buy or steal for me."

When Pharrell had his first hit song and made his first million, he bought his mother a house with a piano in the living room and told her to try it out. His mother shook her head and said, "But I don't know how to play any music. You're the musician, you play, I can't." Pharrell sat down next to her and said, "Yes, you can. It's in your blood."

Our most natural tendency is to make music. It requires no more thought than breathing. --Kenny Werner, Effortless Mastery