song for my father

those who have been following my ranting should be familiar with ken as one of my musical soulmates. we've been friends and have been buying records together for over 20 years. while we don't always see eye-to-eye on music, we have a pretty good sense what pushes each other's button.

starting today, he will join me in obsessing over our shared weakness for good eats and deep grooves. -- the chef
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My mother was a music teacher, so you’d think that my strongest childhood memories about music would come from her. Instead, those memories are primarily from my father. Although my mother was renowned in our house for gathering us (usually against our will) around the piano to sing, my most vivid memories involve sitting in the “family room” downstairs, listening to my father play his favorite records.

He had a fascinating collection of mostly novelty 45’s -- Buddy Hackett, Stan Freberg and the like, but his LP’s fascinated me more. The florid humor of Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, the exotic calypso of Harry Belafonte, and the mariachi lounge of Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass -- he had a lot of the TJB. I remember staring at the cover of and listening to “Whipped Cream and Other Delights” in wonderment about this world where naked girls were covered in whipped cream and a band played songs about honey, peppers, peanuts and garbanzo beans. I loved entering that world with him, listening and jumping around to the music.

My dad is long gone, and now I find myself the father of two, playing music for my kids. At their toddler stage, it’s nearly impossible to introduce them to the joys of Paul’s Boutique, or Duck Rock, or even Getz/Gilberto. The Beatles album of number one hits seems to work, but it’s hard to guess what grown-up music will rock their world. It tends to be songs that are a little different – for a while, they loved when I played Trio’s “Da Da Da” in the car. Songs that start slow and then speed up (such as the virtuoso “Kamarinskaja” by A. Dobrohotov off the always-amazing Secret Museum of Mankind compilations on Yazoo) give them a chance to really rev up and speed around the living room. Herb Alpert’s “Zorba the Greek” (which actually starts fast, then slows to a crawl before peaking again – thereby providing interval training and a full aerobic workout) also does the trick. The subtle wordplay of Elvis Costello or Steven Sondheim will have to wait for another day.

But I realize that it doesn’t really matter what I play for them in the end. The gift I got from my father was not calypso, or British comic operetta, but his love and appreciation for the art form in all its variety and glory. That is the gift that I hope to pass along to my kids. These days, I love it when they say “Daddy, Daddy, can we listen to music now?”, and then to watch them smile as they dance, race around the living room, or fight to select the next track off the CD player.

For Larry – my father; my son.

Posted by berzerkleyboy at September 7, 2005 02:22 PM