What I Learned This Past Father’s Day

Many of you wondered if my sons would write to me like I’d hoped. Yup! – all three did. And touching letters were all of them. But I was shocked by something...

—Survey for you at the end…your faves…let me know—

I couldn’t believe how powerful music was in an upbringing.

In their letters to me, two of my three sons reflected almost exclusively on the music I played while they were growing up.

One recalled when I waxed on about the subtle beauty of a Boyz II Men harmonization. And when I commented on the cool rasp in Tupac’s voice. And when we first heard Alanis Morrisette and I predicted her rise. He called to mind a Kodaline concert we went to when we met the band beforehand and then waved our arms like brothers at the end of All I Want. And a Coldplay concert we went to when we cried our eyes out to Fix You because one of his brothers wasn’t doing well. And our favorite musical memory of all: belting out Let Her Cry by Hootie and the Blowfish, with the windows down and the wind in our hair. Now come on…does it get any better than, “…let her cry…if the tears fall down like rain…?”

Another of my sons vividly remembers driving down the road on one or our trips while I played Dreams by Fleetwood Mac. And he told me how he’s playing his own songs with his son, pointing out what he likes, and making music a part of their life.

What a cool part of an upbringing! I had no idea that my soundtrack would so imprint on their brain.

What is it about music that can do that?

I’ve always heard that smell is the king of memory recall. And it is. That primordial master of senses brings me right back to mom when I smell onions and garlic roasting in a pan.

But music too, according to my sons.

I asked my friend, Greg Smith, a lifelong musician, composer, and all-around musical genius, how music has such an impact. He says we build a bank of memories associated with certain tunes, instrumental combinations, and harmonies, and when they are repeated later in life, we feel all those emotions. I’m sure a scientist would point to a functional MRI scan and show us how various parts of the brain light up when we hear certain melodies, resulting in the release of endorphins.

Okay. That’s all helpful and insightful and technically true, no doubt.

I love to think of the other side of music, its ethereal quality, its spiritual effect, its magic. To me it is a thing of the gods, sometimes even a peek into the eternity, a glimpse behind the curtain. There have been times when I’ve got music piping into my ears and the melody and the lyrics and the coalescing of experiences through that song all combine to open up a part of my spirit that is opened no other way.

I want to include BOTH sides in my understanding of music. To only include the technical side is like breaking down Rafa Nadal’s inside-out forehand on the red clay of Roland Garros in purely mechanical terms. I know you can describe it as a backswing, racket rotation, footwork, body twisting, and the snap of the wrist—but that’s incomplete. It misses the ‘it’ factor; it overlooks the magic of it. Rafa’s forehand is a raw force of nature. I would argue that it defies the laws of gravity and motion and any other natural law you want to call upon. His explosion of energy is somehow, inextricably, magically, more than the sum of its parts. His uncoiling is pure, brutal, mental ferocity. Slow motion is the only thing that does it justice—but even then, after watching it you can only wag your head, your mouth agape, your tongue hanging out of your mouth.

That’s what music is to me.

It can plant a ten-year-old boy’s love for his dad into his brain forever. It can encase thirty years of marriage into one Billy Currington song, listened to in an old stone cottage, deep in the heart of Italy, while an Italian lady cooks for us. It can capture an entire upbringing in a couple songs.

So, my dear sons, I agree, music is an elixir, a memory-maker, and a memory-evoker. Thanks for the reminder.

A few weeks ago, I was driving my grandson home and I started singing, mostly to myself, Country Roads, by John Denver. I noticed he glommed onto it, so we played it a few times together. Then, two weeks later, he asked his dad to play the song on repeat for his birthday while he and his friends played in the garage and the front yard. As four eight-year-olds played, John Denver belted out, “Almost heaven…West Virginia…Blue Ridge mountains…”

I guarantee you, in twenty years, when my grandson is driving home from work one day and that song comes on his Pandify station (they will have merged by then), he’s going to smile and push a button on his AI-assisted car and say, “Call Opa.”

That’s my hope at least.

Here are my fave 3 songs from my sons’ growing up.

1.      “One of Us” Joan Osborne, (What if God was one of us…)

2.      “Let Her Cry” Hootie and the Blowfish

3.      “Lullaby” by Shawn Mullins

—What are your 3 faves? Tell me in the app (preferred) or email me.—

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