Dad and Music
By Rachel Katz
“I’m insane? Or am I so sane — it’s blowing your mind??”
— roughly from what I attribute to, the Seinfeld character, Kramer
I get to play a farmer, now that I don’t live in New York.
I work at a farm.
We went to get fish and chips yesterday.
Talking about music my dad listened to and concerts he took me to. Starting at a very young age I saw many greats.
Too young, when I saw Aretha Franklin and George Clinton, and then when I was a little older, Al Green, Irma Thomas, James Brown, and two years ago, Taj Mahal at the lawn near the zoo.
“Wow you saw all those concerts.” I’m riding with Lori, one of boss ladies. She is sheep and goat’s milk cheese maker, and married to her farmer former athlete wife and they live with her 87 year old retired school teacher father-in-law.
He likes gardening on his knees all day but is losing his mind.
“Yeah dad loved music. He had three music shows that he dj’d for in college, on KRAB radio — the last station at the end of the dial — (now called “THE END”)…”
I was proud of these shows.
“Gospel Pearls”
“Arrested Adolescence”
and
“Boomba Clot”
or something like that.
Dad was a swarthy, barrell chested, rainbow rag-rug sweater-wearing, formerly Jewish and New Yorker, hippy when I met him. (When I was born.)
I like to work him into conversations. He has been dead for almost a month.
“And Taj Mahal …. I don’t even know him,” Lori says, from the other side of the planet,
“…must be a generational thing…Taj Mahal? What band was that or what band was he in? Or a name like that —Taj Mahal — might be the whole band hahahaha — Just “Taj Mahal” — I’m getting the picture” Lori compliments her lack of commitment to knowing good music, with a kindly deep laugh.
“Yeah — just Taj Mahal. Plays sort of folk-soul” I couldn’t do better than that.
I honestly couldn’t recall one song in that moment and even though she was way off, and it was throwing me way off, I think I invented a new musical genre to describe his style.
“How about Tom Jones? Did you see any Tom Jones?” another deep hoarse laugh.
She might not know who I’m talking about Dad-wise, but she knew that the artists are not Tom Jones or even Tom Jones adjacent.
***
I have this alarm set in my body, just like an alarm to wake me up, this one reminds me to call dad on the way to work and when I get off of work.
I want to call my dad and describe the sunrise (over the mountains) to him, he likes that kind of stuff.
The next day, I woke up thinking about my dad//went on Instagram, just before I was due at work.
I had 10 minutes to drip coffee down my throat, and ultimately not enough time to shower.
Too much instagram. Looking at food porn featured at hip brooklyn pop-ups.
A rapid fire internal monologue ensues. A brutal takedown of my skillful abilities and choices in life, thus far, (and somehow, all the while the rest of my brain is slow to wake…)
I collapse into the real headline:
I still, after a month, of course, — still — really, really, really miss my dad.
A cry for — how am I supposed to do all of this??? All of this.
I have to go to work.
First song comes on the car radio as I drive the 5 miles to the farm, it begins, freshly, from the top: “You’re listening to 106.9 the HAWK” and on comes, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow,” by the Shirelles, my dad’s actual favorite song.
The lyrics communicate gentle tender feelings.
“Tonight you're mine completely
You give your love so sweetly
Tonight the light of love is in your eyes
But will you love me tomorrow?
Is this a lasting treasure
Or just a moment's pleasure?
Can I believe the magic of your sighs?
Will you still love me tomorrow?
Tonight with words unspoken
You say that I'm the only one
But will my heart be broken
When the night meets the morning sun?
I'd like to know that your love
Is love I can be sure of
So tell me now, and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?
So tell me now, and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?
Will you still love me tomorrow
The lyrics are not only, that-of, a teenage girl,
but of my dad. He often too needed reassurance.
And then the song ends. And fucking horns blast:
TOM JONES.
“Well she's all you'd ever want,
She's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner.
Well she always knows her place.
She's got style, she's got grace, She's a winner.
She's a Lady. Whoa whoa whoa,
She's a Lady.
Talkin' about that little lady,
And the lady is mine.
My Dad’s favorite song, followed by Lori’s favorite — Mr. Jones himself.
A cosmic joke that those were my two songs,
one came on one after the other.
Especially in my time of despair.
I had to laugh. Dad’s not far.
***BONUS: Spotify Playlist: DAD JAMZ -- a real mixed bag! *** Songs that my dad liked!
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4s9gO0GZ1s8egIIzRkZ359?si=D6D_WGcfTCaJfL2u5FxQ4A