Music haunts me. More to the point, music keeps biting me in the ass. And I keep letting it.
Music has been integral to my existence. You can read it in these blog posts, where I seem always to link something to a song or lyric. That's what my head does in virtually every setting -- a phrase, event, reaction seems to trigger a song lyric.
My father was a musician and I grew up surrounded by jam sessions at our home, being taken to radio stations, live performances, and of course the clubs my dad and his band played.
Ironic that I was surrounded by such loud music all of the time, yet I was partially deaf as a child (until I had surgery at age 11 -- what a miracle to my world, but that's a story for another time). And how further ironic that just 2 months after I had full hearing restored to me, my father died. And along with him, for a while, the music died too.
But music wouldn't leave me. I took violin lessons. I sang in the school choruses and church choir, and surrounded myself with the radio and records (yep, both kinds, 33 and 45). I had a head for lyrics, and a love of rhythm and beat, and collected as much music as my meager allowance (and rather restrictive mother) would allow.
I met my husband when I was 19 and he was 20. He was wearing a tape recorder, headphones and carrying a mic when I first met him, working for student radio station KUSC and for the "audio yearbook." In retrospect, it was an obvious attraction.
After that, it was like reliving my childhood. My world became filled not just with the music on disc, but with radio stations, live shows, recording sessions and other musical madness. Steve went on to become a well known audio designer and engineer, specializing in live shows, radio broadcasts, music festivals, and pristine live recordings.
And so I transitioned into adulthood still being surrounded by (loud) music. Unlike my childhood, which was limited to country western and church music, this time I was surrounded by classical, jazz, blues, big band, avant garde, rock and folk music. I loved it. I sometimes tired of it. But it was always there. It was my life.
When my son was born, I hoped that he too would love music. I would dance with him as a baby, and he would smile that enormous smile of his, lighting up his hazel blue eyes We sang along with Disney videos. I sang with the radio, and to him, in the car. He started going to live shows when he was just a few days old. The loud sounds never disturbed him.
To my amazement, hope became reality. At age 9, he begged me (yes, begged) for piano lessons. His elementary school had a music teacher and he loved the class. He wanted to play piano. So he did. (I gave him lessons.) By age 11, he had been in 3 recitals and was learning to play Scott Joplin (he knew how much I adored Joplin's rag music).
He arrived in middle school and expanded his talent to the electric bass (yes, of course I gave him lessons). He joined the orchestra. At his audition, the music teacher said, "he's got perfect pitch" and promptly assigned him the French horn, one of the more difficult instruments. He relished the chance to play it (yes, of course I gave him lessons). He also played in the marching band, and was selected to play French horn in the Idlywild summer honors symphonic band.
Music was huge in his life. He continued to play all three instruments until his world completely fell apart with his estrangement from his father, followed by the death of a special father figure to him, soon followed by the death of his beloved uncle, another father figure to him.
Ultimately, my son, who would introduce himself to a new French horn piece by transcribing (in his head!) the horn music into piano music, playing it on piano, and then playing the notes on the horn, would call himself a "music retard." How wrong he was. How it broke my heart to see him have such a disconnect with his talents.
On the other hand, he never left music, and indeed he surrounded himself with music -- radio, CDs (I still have most of his collection -- it was huge), and downloads on the computer. (He kept losing his iPods.) Our home (and the car) was never quiet. And he didn't have just a single type of music. Like his dad (with whom he had a definite love-hate relationship, probably because they were so much alike) his tastes ranged from rock, punk, jazz, blues, electronic, reggae, rap, hip hop and alternative. Even the Beatles. Or should I say, because they are among my favorites, especially the Beatles.
I had hoped that his love of music would help him get through the pain he was feeling over all the losses of the father figures in his life. Music helped, but it was never quite enough.
The greatest gift of all of this, for me, is that he and I shared the music. When he was just entering the terrible teen years, I took him to a free outdoor concert and like a protective mom hung around despite not knowing who the heck "Rage Against the Machine" was (I learned). That started us on a journey of shared music. We listened to music in the car and at home. He'd play newly found jewels for me, or excitedly share about a new group or artist. I found myself with yet another great connection, on a visceral level, with my troubled teenage son. And I realized that I actually enjoyed Social Distortion and Bad Religion and Rancid and Sublime and Flogging Molly and all the other edgy music he liked.
Our last evening together we enjoyed a Mexican feast (his favorite food, next to sushi), shopping at Trader Joe's and driving downtown together. I cherish that car ride because we were able to share the music. Bad Religion had just released a new song and we discussed a perceived change in their style, but agreed they were still good.
Less than 36 hours after sharing the music on that car ride, my son was dead.
At his memorial service, my family helped me put together a selection of songs. I chose Social Distortion, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Marley. I remember trying to get people to sing along (lyrics were passed out). It was crazy. Everyone was in shock and disbelief that he was gone, but Mat would have wanted people to have a good time. There was just too much pain to have any kind of a good time. But still the music played and some people sang and I stood up and sang too.
It literally took YEARS for me to be able to listen to any of his music. I stopped playing the radio in the car for fear that one of "his" groups or songs would come on. And because his dad had died suddenly only 11 months before my son, I had already stopped listening to anything classical. My world became very, very quiet.
Grief gradually loosens its grip on you (it never, ever fully lets go), and slowly it allows some of the old activities to be reintegrated into the present. It's never the same, of course, but at least it's tolerated and maybe can engender some good memories. To the outside world it looks as though you are "better" or "coping." No, not really, it's just that for many of us worn down by grief, there are a few nooks and crannies as time goes on that the grief does not completely fill, which then gives us room to add back pieces of the things we used to do.
I started listening to KROQ again. My daughter would play some of Mat's downloads in the car. I slowly lost the chest-tightening, kick in the solar plexus feeling when I heard the familiar songs (except "Angel" by Flipsyde -- still gets me crying with fresh grief). I even started singing them again.
Every single time I hear a song from our shared times, or any song from a favorite group, the reality of my son's death covers me again. Yet I listen. I sing along. I feel a small bit of peace in listening again. In a way, I am connected with my son despite him being "on the other side" [from a Chili Peppers song]:
How long how long will I slide
Separate my side, I don't
I don't believe it's bad
Slit my throat, it's all I ever
I heard your voice through a photograph
I thought it up it brought up the past
Once you know you can never go back
I've got to take it on the otherside
I heard "Otherside" today while driving, and all the years rolled back and there I was, sitting in the car, listening, and at one point I thought for sure Mat was there in the passenger seat. I like to think we were brought together again by the music. Sigh. I guess to really know how the connection continues, "I've got to take it on the otherside."
Some day. Not today.
My beautiful son, thank you for the music we share. May you always be surrounded by and connected to it, and to me.
copyright 2015
