Dad's Tunes

Driving home last night, my iPhone shuffled on to Simon and Garfunkel's "The Only Living Boy in New York". Normally, that makes me think of the movie Garden State, as the song is on the soundtrack and is my current favorite movie. But for some reason, this time, it made me think of my dad.

Music has always been a part of my life. From a young age, I studied piano, flute, and voice, demonstrating a musical aptitude certainly inherited from my mother, who is a decent pianist and good singer in her own right. My dad, on the other hand, can't hold a tune to save his life. However, even though he didn't bestow me with any musical talent, he has certainly played a key part in my overall appreciation for music.

An early relic from my childhood was my dad's turntable and record collection. The selection of music was modest, but well-loved and oft-played. My dad's albums comprised the soundtrack of my childhood: the Mamas & the Papas, Peter Paul and Mary, Jim Croce, John Denver, and Simon and Garfunkel.

As children, we're beholden to the music our parents listen to until we're old enough to choose it and discover it for ourselves. Had you asked me when I was younger if my dad's music would become my music someday, I'd have said no. How wrong I was...

There's one specific memory I have about when I claimed my dad's music as my own. In junior high and high school, I belonged to a youth group that took a canoe trip on the Saco river in NH/Maine every August. When I was finally old enough to participate, the only way my parents would allow me to go was if my dad was a trip chaperone. There could be nothing worse for a 15-year-old girl, especially when the boy you had a crush on was also going.

But the desire to be with my friends overcame my reluctance to have my dad "tag along". On the car ride to the put-in spot, I was stuck up front in the van with my dad while 5 of my closest friends gabbed non-stop in the back. My dad popped in a cassette of Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, which only he and I could hear over the inevitable din that ensues in a pack of teenage girls.

"Homeward Bound" came on. I hummed along, and looked back at my friends, longing to be a part of their fun, rather than being isolated up front with my dad as chauffeur.

Then, I had an idea that would get me engaged with the girls in the back of the van.

For the next hour, the six of us passengers composed the lyrics to "Saco Bound", as our personal anthem for the trip. We played the Simon and Garfunkel version over and over to get the melody and harmonies right, and riffed off the classic lyrics.

My dad didn't say a thing during the ride, but I remember him standing quietly at the edge of the campfire later that night, smiling slightly while the six of us performed the tune.

Since that day, I've collected Simon and Garfunkel albums and miscellaneous one-off songs for my own collection (this time on CD and via iTunes, of course!), and consider folk one of my favorite genres of music.

The tables turned not so long ago, when my dad mentioned he had a new favorite song. When I asked him what it was, he said Nelly Furtado's "I'm Like a Bird". I paused. She's one of my contemporaries. But I was impressed he knew the song and the artist. We had a pretty good conversation following that, where I mentioned other artists he might like as well.

Since then, my dad has expanded his collection to include other contemporary artists. He has even used the internet to learn more about the songs he likes. After hearing the Feist song "1-2-3-4" on the iPod commercial a few years ago, he went to YouTube to watch the whole video of the song. I bought him the album for Christmas that year.

My dad and I aren't extremely close, and sometimes it's been difficult for each of us to understand the other's perspective. But we can always talk about music. Not too long ago, I bought him one of Paul Simon's more recent solo albums for his birthday. It was the one with Father and Daughter on it. We didn't talk about what that all might mean, but for my part it was a way to acknowledge his influence on my tastes, and thank him for it.