Both my parents were musicians, my Dad played guitar and banjo (and one appeared in his folk band on the same bill as The Corries), my Mum played the piano, both sang in local and national choirs; vague recollections of my Uncle conducting them both in Paisley Cathedral for a performance of Handel’s Messiah, a piece that still evokes rich memories. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have an upright piano in the living room (on which I learned to play) or when there wasn’t music of some form playing from some part of the house.
Music was a constant theme of my childhood; Sunday mornings my Dad with the Sunday broadsheets, classical music on the stereo in the living room. Car rides with Status Quo, Neil Sedaka, Barry Manilow. My discovery of my Mum’s Beatle LPs (and fan club single!). Walking into the kitchen to hear Guns N Roses Appetite for Destruction on the cassette player, Dad thoroughly enjoying it – he’d heard the kids at his school mention it and thought he’d check it out, blew my 14 year old mind and I quickly ‘borrowed’ it for my own growing collection.
Queen though were, and remain, my band. I have added others over the years of course, but we had their Jazz album on LP and it was chockful of hit songs (Bicycle Race, Fat Bottomed Girls, Don’t Stop Me Now), otherworldly sounds (Mustapha), and beautiful ballads (In Only Seven Days). Without realising it, they were forming my love of song writing, of rock music, and of meaningful heartfelt lyrics.
For all their rock legend antics, some of the quieter album tracks are my favourites, stepping away from the bombastic, stadium rock defining songs, you find songs with a folk feel (’39), and quiet piano driven ballads arrive gently more often than not.
Another constant in our house was books, both my parents were avid readers, the local library a weekly visit, and soon I too was happiest with my headphones on and my nose in a book, devouring words whilst well crafted songs seeped into my brain.
Is it any wonder I’ve always been drawn to meaningful and thoughtful lyrics, always tended to imprint my own thoughts and moods on them. The joy to be found in words, written or performed, is a core memory and as I’ve grown, and learned more about them, the pleasure found in a beautiful turn of phrase has only heightened.
And of course, as with most art forms, it’s the emotional highs and lows that hit the hardest.
Then came a band called Pearl Jam, willing to lay their emotions bare to an 18 year old who was, I now realise, already starting to struggle with who they were, what kind of person they wanted to be. An 18 year old who was pushing against what he was told he ‘should’ do (go to University) as he wasn’t even sure what he enjoyed the most. I hold no grudge against my parents for wanting me to push myself academically, I was smart enough to do so, but part of wishes they had allowed me to indulge my love of music a little more than they did.
Although to be fair to them, I constantly railed against practicing the piano, pushed back on having to learn, and given that my sister ended up with all the actual musical talent, and my achievements were only achieved by repetition and hard work, well, I can see it from my parents point of view.
If I could go back in time I would push myself to move into music production, the intersection of art and technology (think Trent Reznor), and possibly into more composition than performing. But life doesn’t work that way so I remain an avid, amateur, admirer of music in many genres, and double down on those written with a smart eye to the English language, to the poetic couplets and gentle meters that the best lyrics always contain.
Music has gotten me through many good and bad times in my life and the emotional connections born and made remain vivid and bright. It’s something I hope I can pass on to my son, to have a house full of music of all kinds, to remain interested in whatever he discovers, and then on to the utter joy and exhilaration of music performed live.
Handel’s Messiah is my first memory of live music, in Paisley Abbey (I think) as my parents were part of the choir, my Uncle Bill conducting, and I was sat in a pew (likely with a colouring book to keep me entertained). It’s a very vague memory but the opening chords still bring that memory to the surface, just as moments witnessed and held on to form a large part of my love of live music, Guy Garvey pointing at me from the stage, my own tears as Eddie Vedder opened their gig with the deep rumblings of Release Me, Skin from Skunk Anansie crowd surfing her way to the first banister in the O2 Academy in Glasgow, and so many glorious moments of joy at Glastonbury festival that I’d need an entire post just to capture them.. (makes note to write an entire post of my memories of attending Glastonbury).
I continue to curate songs into playlists, discovering new artists as and when I can (current obsession is Doechi), and revel in melodies new and old. Music is a core part of who I am, and songs that chart the stories of my life only resonate deeper and deeper as I age and, as I watch my son grow I do so in the full knowledge that I will, at some point, pass on my own tastes in some small way to him but remain excited for him to start making his own discoveries.
The other day he started doing a wee chair dance to some music and it filled my heart with joy, between his Mum and me, I’ve no doubt that music will also become a backdrop for his life.
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Dear reader, you may think some of this sounds familiar. I did too (there is nothing new etc) but it turns out I have covered some of this already.
