I still remember the day that I learned to play a simple C chord on the guitar. I just strummed it over and over. I even placed my ear against the body of the instrument to feel the resonance. A few years ago, my then-11-year-old daughter Meegan had nearly the identical experience when she discovered a G triad on the piano. “This sounds so good!” she exclaimed with an ear-to-ear grin that melted my heart. It was a magical moment for her. I could relate even though the sound of that chord didn’t amaze me as it did her.

The kicks are definitely harder to find after you have studied music extensively, practiced daily for years, spent thousands of hours listening to music analytically, and played hundreds of gigs. It is understandable, but still seems a little sad to me when I meet musicians who have devoted so much of their life’s energy to mastering music, yet the bloom is off the rose for them.

Perhaps it is the rigorous discipline that musicians endure that can turn to discouragement and even bitterness when certain professional goals or personal standards in a performance are not met. I have to constantly remind myself that music isn’t only for those of us who play it. Although it is personally gratifying to the performer (even when he or she is practicing alone), music is most powerful when shared with an audience willing to give its full attention.

Jazz guitarist Mick Goodrick told me of a great lesson he learned years ago after a concert. A young man came up to say how much he loved Goodrick’s guitar playing and that he had enjoyed the show tremendously. Goodrick informed him that he really hadn’t played too well, he’d had an off night. Goodrick could tell instantly by the look in the person’s eyes that he’d just taken something of value away from him. Goodrick told me that he resolved never to do that again. He would be gracious about compliments, keep self-critical thoughts to himself, and let audience members keep what they’d paid for.

I am always in pursuit of that tingle up and down the spine that an exceptional performance can provide. I have experienced live concerts of many musical styles that literally left me speechless afterwards. I have been dazzled by the elegant virtuosity of a Keith Jarrett solo piano concert, and been bowled over by the polished power of the Steve Morse Group or the ferocious groove of Weather Report (when Jaco Pastorius and Peter Erskine were the rhythm section). I could have died instantly—totally satisfied with my lot in life—after hearing Andrew Davis conduct the Boston Symphony Orchestra in Ralph Vaughan Williams’ transcendent Fifth Symphony. I came away similarly edified after an evening at Nashville’s Bluebird cafe listening to stellar hit songwriters Gary Burr and Mike Reid play some of their best tunes.

There is something ineffable about music that drives so many musicians to invest their life’s finite hours singing or blowing, bowing, striking, strumming, or plucking pieces of wood, plastic, ivory, or metal. Most of us want to participate in creating that musical magic we have experienced. It is a great irony that we frequently get less enjoyment out of a live performance (our own or someone else’s) than the average audience member who knows and cares little about the mechanics of music.

In a recent conversation, jazz vibist Gary Burton told me that he almost never listens to music at home and very rarely goes out to concerts. Since he performs so much, he hears a lot of music, usually the other acts with whom he is sharing the bill. Gary told me that it is rare that he will seek out a musical experience at a concert hall or club. When he listens to a jazz artist, he’s always thinking, “nice chord substitution,” or “why did he play that note against that chord?” Gary said he enjoyed a string quartet concert recently and suspected that it was because he doesn’t know a lot about the music they played. There is a lesson to be learned here.

Benjamin Franklin once said that we are all ignorant . . . about different things. Perhaps going outside of the musical realm in which we are most comfortable is a way we can get in touch with the wonder we felt at the beginning of our musical journey, when ignorance was bliss.

In an interview I conducted with Pat Metheny a few years ago, he eloquently described his feelings about the spiritual essence of music. “It is a mysterious vapor that somehow slips in the cracks between this plane of existence and some other one,” he said. “The people who are good musicians have the ability to conjure up more of that vapor than others.”

The many moments of musical rapture I have experienced while enveloped in this vapor are what motivate me to buy a ticket, a new CD, or to pick up my own instrument daily. I am thankful that I know enough about music to conjure up some of that vapor, but I am also grateful for the ignorance that enables me to still feel a childlike awe at the power of great music.