I cannot take you back to the very beginning of my musical background. I do not know where it even begins. I have known music as long as I’ve known my mother, even before that I’m sure. She knew music longer than she knew herself, and it was through music that I came to know her. It is no big surprise to see music in my actions, only to realize that the music is actually fragments of everyone I know and feel and love passionately. I am reminded of these people everyday when a particular chord, voice, note, inflection or rumble claims me. Often I am shaken. I have felt the cold hands of a dying friend through a song, the kiss of someone wrong, of someone lost, the shudder of a bird’s silent thump on my windshield, violations against my spirit, first dates and cancer smeared goodbyes. I can smell my grandmother’s cooking in the fantastic explosion of violin and piano; her very presence is evident in the melodic quiet of Jim Reeves and the simple power of Patsy Cline. Tchaikovsky, Bach, Mozart, Verdi and Dvorak became a part of me through her, and whenever a particular piece is blared or subtly whispered to me I not only think of her, I feel her. This is what music does to me, says to me. It captivates, haunts, thrills and teaches me.
Sometimes it smothers me, and although I rebel against its power, it is without guilt that I admit that I often put myself inside it and do not come out until a part of me is stronger or less foolish. My mother surrounded me with its force but did not use it as a weapon. She fed me lullabies and sad folk songs, and it satiated me. She gave me roots to cling to until I could find and nourish my own. I feel like my mother’s music is a part of me.
My father’s music, however, always felt like something I wanted to be a part of but never could. He is a musician, and not the loud honky tonk bar type, but the real deal. This always intimidated me. Recently I let it go, but when a certain song slips inside me I can still feel the jealousy, the want to be what he wants me to be. It’s a knot of organ chords and sax riffs tightly wound with the veins of a deep and soulful jazz orchestra. Certain songs take me back to the nights I spent watching him play. The bars were always dark and dusty, but the cokes never came without a thick wedge of lime. Even as a child I could see an excitement about my father that rarely existed anywhere else. He was born to entertain, and he did so with crazy gusto. His music provided the information I needed to understand the different sides of him. I thought I knew him through music, but I was proven wrong. Music can only show me who he is when it surrounds him. I barely know the truest part of him, the struggle of melody fighting to take over a human body, and the fight is only a whisper when he is not performing.
My musical tastes vary, and sometimes even clash. So many people have influenced my love for music. My mom gave me the love of folk, of simple voices and funky beats. My father gave me jazz, wailing voices and a hunger for big bands and even bigger voices. A Hammond b3 can put me in my place or take the floor out from under me. My grandmother gave me the power of instrumental magic and the beauty of old time country. Scott introduced me to rap, bass, percussion and lyrics. In my first year of living alone I discovered choral, gospel and hip hop music. I have roots now, and they have nothing to do with me, but everything to do with who means the most.
I have added a playlist at the bottom of my blog with many of my favorites. Enjoy!
