Whose feet don’t move when the Doobie Brothers are playing? I know I date myself, but when I hear, “What a Fool Believes,” I can’t help but embarrass my kids. Yes, I know embarrassing our kids isn’t that hard, but there are fun ways and not-fun ways to do it.
Not fun way: “Tell me again what Furry Fandom is about?”
Fun way: “Can you move your feet with me while we listen to some Michael McDonald (lead composer and singer of Doobie Brothers) sing ‘What a Fool Believes?’”
I grew up with music all around me. My mother was a superb pianist who gave up her passion to raise six kids and run the neighborhood grocery store with my dad. While she missed her piano, she had six kids to foist it on.
But I was number five in the lineup, and none of the others were serious about playing, so when I said, “I’d rather play guitar,” she heard me. My brother got a guitar as well, and before we knew it, we were strumming (albeit poorly) to Peter, Paul, and Mary. We graduated to playing Simon and Garfunkel.
Wind the clock forward many decades and as a grandmother, which song do I pull up on YouTube for my 3-year-old granddaughter? Peter Paul and Mary’s “Garden Song.” She knows it by heart, and I have not so subtly planted the message of the beauty of gardens.
Music is deep within my family’s soul. My father-in-law, at 95, still plays bassoon. My mother-in-law, now passed, was a music teacher with perfect pitch who conducted choirs, taught in schools, and was recognized many times in the city of Chicago for what she gave to the community. My husband is a trained tenor and a part-time cantor for the Jewish holidays, as well as a member of a very fine, all-year-around choir.
It’s the unusual moment when I’m speaking to my husband, and he is actually listening to me and not humming something he can’t get out of his head. We call that an “earworm,” and he has them all the time.
I accept his earworms and my muddled messages when he is not listening because of what music gives us. Music can calm us, excite us, bring us back to a special moment, and even unite us. Who didn’t tear up when we watched famous performers sing, “We are the world.”
This year, a similar moment was repeated for me when the song “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables was sung by the Israeli Opera in a plea to release the hostages:
Music is deep within my family’s soul. My father-in-law, at 95, still plays bassoon. My mother-in-law, now passed, was a music teacher with perfect pitch who conducted choirs, taught in schools, and was recognized many times in the city of Chicago for what she gave to the community. My husband is a trained tenor and a part-time cantor for the Jewish holidays, as well as a member of a very fine, all-year-around choir.
It’s the unusual moment when I’m speaking to my husband, and he is actually listening to me and not humming something he can’t get out of his head. We call that an “earworm,” and he has them all the time.
I accept his earworms and my muddled messages when he is not listening because of what music gives us. Music can calm us, excite us, bring us back to a special moment, and even unite us. Who didn’t tear up when we watched famous performers sing, “We are the world.”
This year, a similar moment was repeated for me when the song “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables was sung by the Israeli Opera in a plea to release the hostages.
But if the magic genie were to grant my wish to have musical capabilities (my early years of playing guitar don’t count), what would they be specifically?
I would want to play piano and possess enough range to sound like Billy Joel, Alicia Keys, and Vladimir Horowitz. That would mean I could play pop, jazz, and classical, all of which I appreciate.
My mom had it right in trying to “push” the piano on her kids, but by the time I came around, she gave up, and there is no saying that I would have been any truer to her favorite instrument.
Here’s a “music moment” that reminds me of what a few of the right notes can do for someone. My father-in-law was in the Emergency Room one evening with a temperature and weakness. He was 90 at the time and feeling miserable. It was me, him, and the nurses, and I was trying to figure out what might help provide relief.
The nurse gave him Tylenol to reduce his fever, which eventually helped. During the waiting period, I offered,
“Bernie, do you think you have it in you to guess a few classical pieces that I can play on my phone?”
Bernie has loved classical music since he was nine years old, listening to his father on violin. He took it as a personal mission to educate me, which he did. My husband and I have had season tickets to the Boston Symphony Orchestra for years because of Bernie.
Answering my question, Bernie said, “Try me.”
So I gave him a Brahms piece, followed by Mozart, followed by Frederick Mendelsohn. He guessed them all, and his mood changed almost instantly. Of course, it wasn’t a guess for Bernie. It was a deep knowledge and appreciation for the classical composers. He should be everyone’s phone-a-friend when the questions are about classical music.
Music and Tylenol saved the day, and I continue to use that little game with him when I think he needs a “reboot.” He is 95 now, and life can be challenging as we age — especially when we try to age with pride.
In a novel I wrote a few years ago, a character called “Coach” describes the power of humor. Coach explains that even if we’re not inherently funny, the world needs humor creators and humor appreciators. One doesn’t work without the other.
I think the same can be said about music. I don’t create music, but boy do I appreciate it. Musicians need people like me as much as I need them.
Even though the genie won’t grant my wish to play piano, I rest comfortably knowing I have a role to play, a beat in my heart, and some feet that want to dance.
So instead, I say, “Play on!” I will sing, I will dance, I will applaud, and I will honor the moment.
I relate so well. Wish i had a voice that flowed smoothly out of my body, effortless, velvety.
I don't disagree with any of this.