The title of this fic comes from the quote found at the bottom of the page: "Our most natural tendency is to make music. It requires no more thought than breathing."

It's interesting to me that we write in a fandom in which our characters lives are based almost entirely around two things, music and celebrity, and yet almost all the fic focuses on the latter. Probably because dealing with gay sex and celebrity is a lot more dramatic than gay sex and music, which seem to go together quite well. When I wrote this, I was desperate for a few things: to get back to writing beautiful things (something I always want to do but don't do particularly often) and to get back to music (something that consumed my life for four years…and then just stopped).

The titular quote comes from a book that my clarinet teacher made all of us buy and read (it comes with a meditation CD). I thought it might be a Justin-ish thing, so I reread parts of it to mine it for quotes. When I saw that one, I was incredibly moved and knew I had to use it, but Justin isn't what came out at all.

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.

I can't remember if I learned it in music classes or physics, but somewhere I was taught that the lowest notes of an organ are too low for the human ear and that they were really only for effect. It always fascinated me to think of that. That's such a specific thing to design, and seems like such a waste of a foot…but it makes perfect sense if you've ever played in a really good ensemble. One of the most satisfying things about playing in an orchestra is that you're *inside* the music, it's coming from all angles and you feel it in your stomach. Playing a Beethoven symphony is the closest thing I've ever felt to spirituality.

I wanted, here, to establish that Pharrell's mother lived for the music. I have no idea what Pharrell's mother is like nor what Pharrell's childhood was like. This is all false, but I love the idea of her just 18 falling for this man who wasn't really very much, because of what his music did to her, how she felt it so deep. Talent is incredibly attractive and I loved thinking that Pharrell was the union of a woman with a love of feeling music and man who made music for her to feel. In my mind, the man was much older and knew exactly what his music did to 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.

Surprising to no one, I made a lot of noise as a child. In home videos, there is constant noise in my house. I was always singing and banging on shit. My sister was a baby and used to pound on this kiddie piano we had. My aunt and uncle didn't have any children. Once, they were going to have us sleepover, but my aunt had to call my mom to come and get us, because we made too much noise. She always felt we were poorly behaved. She thought we should be quiet and visit art museums. My parents never once took us to an art museum. My aunt has never seen me play the clarinet.

This segment was important to me because it says so much about the way Pharrell's mother feels about Pharrell and his father vs. the way the rest of the family sees it. Pharrell's aunt sees that now she has another two people to care for. But, to Pharrell's mother, even though the father ultimately ended up leaving her stranded, he had something so precious to her and he passed it along to his child. I think she looks at Pharrell and remembers the joy of the music, because it lives in him.

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."

I love the idea that Pharrell's mother is someone so consumed by music that she just wants to be around it and expose Pharrell to it. I love her attachment to music, the idea that she would go to these stores and pretend just because she needed to be near it, it moves her so much. I also love how easily she lies and how she can pull off "very rich." This segment about this character is partly based on my cousin, who, at 18, gave birth to a son whose father was in jail - for murder, or a political prisoner, depending on who you asked. I remember when I was a little girl, I thought she was such a lady, so refined. She had very grand plans and ideas and looked like a ballerina and was always swooping with her arms when she talked and when we were growing up, her kids didn't wear blue, because it was the color of the police. Her big talk was mostly pipe dreams, but I didn't know it.

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."

The relationship Pharrell and his mother have, here, was so important to me. These pop stars always talk about how their mother is their best friend, and I think it almost has to be that way when you pursue something like this so young. Who believes you when you say you're going to be a star? Only a mother and people who want to take advantage believe that a kid can be a star. Most people think a kid belongs in school. I love that Pharrell's mother does everything she can for him, even though she's got no money, and that he does everything he can for her, too, because he knows how much she's given up for him. I love that what he does for her is make music.

This fic, in case you haven't noticed, is actually more a fic about Pharrell's mother than Pharrell. We always talk about what stage parents Justin and Britney had, and it's true, they did. But there's this whole other kind of parent who lets their kid grow and does everything to encourage it, without ever pushing it. This fic is sort of a testament to my parents and how they encouraged me so much to do this thing I loved, even though they themselves are completely unmusical. I could say a lot more here, but I'm already starting to get misty, so I'll move along to the point where I get *really* misty:

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."

Even though it mostly went unnoticed, this fic is one of the things I wrote in this fandom that I love the most. This is the lamest thing to admit, but when I finished writing this fic, I cried. I am, admittedly, a huge sap. But you're not supposed to cry over your *own* fic. In a lot of ways, though, this story wrote itself, so I don't feel too bad about it. It broke my heart to think that all this time, all this love of music, it was never something she did, something she's, even now, afraid to do, because she doesn't think she has it in her. In her mind, Pharrell's gift was from his father. But she's so, so wrong. And she, and all of us, does have it in her. Which leads us right back to this gorgeous quote that made this fic write itself:

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