I never expected to have much influence over my children’s taste in music.
My own is so limited. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. I don’t have rhythm. There is nothing sophisticated or educated about my preferences.
I’ve never cared what was popular – that American means of identifying oneself with a generation or culture by music passed me by. When asked to remember a song of my youth, I usually draw a blank.
That is not to say that I don’t like music. When I lived near DC, there were several radio stations I liked which played classical or jazz, and I often listened to them.
(I never found a radio station I liked in Colorado, so over the past nine years, I’ve stopped listening to music on my own. Besides, Trixie howls when she hears violins, so classical is out.)
My husband loves music. All sorts. He and my younger son enjoy telling each other about new bands they’ve discovered. They discuss things I don’t even hear in music, can recognize composers and influences. It’s all over my head.
So imagine my surprise when my guitar playing, music loving son told me how much he appreciated the soundtrack of his childhood. Not the music he loved to listen to with Dad, but the jazz I so often played in the car or while cooking dinner.
“I didn’t realize what great music I was hearing at the time,” he said, “Now I do. How did you discover jazz?”
I have no recollection of when, but I’m sure I was just looking for something “appealing,” and classic jazz appealed to me.
(This Sunday Song features Charlie Parker playing his own arrangement of Gershwin’s I’ve Got Rhythm. )