Mama, Music & Me

My mom exposed me as an infant, her newborn lastborn and coddled jewel, to her favorite tunes, sowing the seeds of musical love, which later grew to a tall tree baring original songs as its fruit. She drifted through my life like a wind-kissed plume of reefer smoke, usually dressed in an artsy ensemble of thrift store finds, coveted curios, and sentimental heirlooms. Her faux fur vest would rest above one of my discarded and forgotten hand painted T-shirts of middle school vintage, rescued from the back of my closet. With a brilliant-colored image and script in a playful font emblazoned across her bosom, Mom was always eager to tout my talent and a cool, unsung band. Turkish evil eye talismans and Mardi Gras beads swing from her neck. Pleated genie pants billow above embroidered Chinese slippers on her feet, multicolored handkerchiefed head and hips swaying to the beat of whatever I was playing in my bedroom that moved her.

She’d peek in and smile when my impassioned sing along to “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding” went from a whisper to a scream. She’d dance in and out to XTC’s Afropop-styled “Living Through Another Cuba.” She’d call out requests for her personal favorites that I’d introduced her to- from Elvis Costello’s country album ‘Almost Blue,’ to The Motors’ “Airport,” to Aztec Camera’s “Oblivious,” going deep and drawing heavily from my treasure trove of English pop. Then she’d delight when I’d put on songs that I dug that harked back to her younger days like “Cloudburst” by Jazz Vocalese greats Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross or “Trickle Trickle” by vintage Doo-wop group The Videos. Mom had a taste for layered harmonies, and we’d often debate the pros and cons of The Mamas and The Papas against The 5th Dimension. Knowing I loved The Beach Boys she hipped me to the tight, lush harmonies of their 1950s forebears The Four Freshmen. She would also regale with morbidly funny tales of Frankie Lymon before the heroin, Cass Elliott before the ham sandwich, her attempts to bed the flamboyant, closeted and uninterested Johnny Mathis when they knew each other in the 50s, and engage me in the juicy details of Cher’s divorce from Sonny and the singer’s scandalous affair with Greg Allman.

Although Mom loved and collected jazz 78s and LPs, she delighted in modern pop culture and its myriads of sounds and passed this proclivity on to me. Mom’s deep love of music goes far beyond the obvious of her marrying a jazz musician. One look at the family record collection, which was eventually subsumed into my own, revealed a time capsule of the cool and unusual. From Miles Davis’ ‘Kind of Blue’ to comedian Bill Dana’s politically incorrect ‘My Name Jose Jimenez’ to Sly and The Family Stone’s anthemic ‘Stand’ to the super sexy ‘Whipped Cream and Other Delights’ by Herb Alpert to the super scary exotic animal LP covers from the progressive jazz band Mandrill.

My musicality had to blossom. I always flirted with the guitar as a child, holding, posing, and strumming one of many found in our home while miming bubble gum pop music in performance for Mom in the living room. Closely studying the intros, interplay of verse-chorus-verse, and Beatlesque “middle-eights.” Mom sat, watched, and smiled approvingly at little me. Clapping loud and long. Calling out, “Bravo!” and “Encore!”

So, I danced and shook and banged on my instrument while wiggling in a pair of my father’s shiny Italian dancing shoes, too big then, and perhaps ever, to fill. And my eyes were closed in a dreamy ecstasy, losing myself on the makeshift stage in a pop rock fantasy that I’ve yet to wake up from. And I am reluctant to open my eyes. For in that calming darkness, I am forever five years old, unselfconscious, fearless, and loved by my mother, who sits before me, alive, with a burning joint at her lips, smiling proudly, digging the show.

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