I never had a chance. I was raised by musicians.
You
name it, I’ve done it. Took piano lessons, played the french horn,
played in school band, marching band, accompanied a church group, sung
in choirs, gone Christmas caroling, even been carted around town with my
siblings to sing at community and or church functions like a low-rent
version of the Von Trapp kids but with less lederhosen.
Much less lederhosen.
My
earliest musical memories involve gatherings of my dad’s side of the
family as they’d sit around playing and singing folk tunes, ragtime, and
even John Philip Sousa. When my mom’s side of the family got their
music on there were folk songs too, but as soon as the holidays rolled
around we would pack into a room and sing traditional Christmas carols
from the old countries which translates to “songs most people I know
aren’t familiar with.”
It
would be fair to say that evenings with my dad’s family were raucous
and silly, laughter occasionally interrupted by Under The Double eagle
or the Maple Leaf Rag where getting off a great joke held the same
esteem as being able to sing all the words to Fum Fum Fum in Spanish
with my mom’s side of the family. Now that I think about it I can’t
remember if they were singing in Spanish or Catalan, I should call
someone and find out since anyone not singing that song in Catalan would
be a massive poser.
Music
has been an inescapable part of my life from the moment it started.
And from a very young age I was aware of the different ways it affects
and touches us. And not just on days when I’m at my parents house
loading sacred baroque selections onto my mom’s ipod while my dad is
blasting his Spike Jones CD from the other room.
What’s the point of all that?
The point, I suppose, is that even I have to wonder how I got from this
to this...
Who could say?
-J Sargent (the other guy)
