Of Moms And Music
Mom: Why don't you write anymore?
Me: What do you mean? I just posted something a couple of weeks ago?
Mom: That's not writing. That's about music. You never write about life anymore.
Me: Music is life.Mom: You know what I mean. The funny stuff. And the personal things.
Me: Music is very personal to me. It is.
Mom: Tooonnny.
Generally, when a back-and-forth with my mom reaches the inflected insert name here stage, it's almost pointless to try to continue making your point.
And though I'm quite familiar with the efficacy of this particular rhetorical parry, and the futility of any riposte on my end, it doesn't mean I don't try to double down on my point. I'm a Schmiesing after all.
The irony, however, is that my mom figures prominently in some of my favorite memories regarding music. Strike that, favorite memories period. Funny stuff. Personal things.
It's no accident that the subject of music occupies the bulk of the content on this site. It—along with love, Family and friends—is a cornerstone to my life.
A constant.
So in honor of her inspiration for yet another post about music, and in celebration of her birthday today, I give you three of my favorite memories regarding my mom and music.
Date: c1968 to 1974.
Time: Approximately 8:30 PM.
Location: multiple locations, Newport Beach.
As part of our nightly bedtime ritual, my mom comes into each of our rooms, cuddles up beside us, and sings a little lullaby to help me and my sisters drift peacefully into slumberland. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out / In your stomach and out your snout / Your liver turns an ooky green and puss comes out like whipping cream". She then punctuates it with a kiss, an I love you, and a "sleep tight don't let the bedbugs bite". It'll be a complicated ride into slumberland.
Takeaway: Any lingering affects of said ritual are still working themselves out.
Date: 1982-1984
Time: 3:30 PM to 5:30 PM
Location: 1712 Port Manleigh Circle, Newport Beach
In a tradition as old is pop music it's self, I have been given permission to use my bedroom as a rehearsal space for my eight piece ska band, Secret Service. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, we grab our guitars, bass, amplifiers, drums, PA, keyboards, mics, horns and cables, and swing and skank for a humid two hour block. What separates this from every other musical origin story, is that on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday my folks—in which can only be considered a lapse of judgment—welcome my friend's rockabilly band The Razorbacks to rehearse as well. And where you'd think this would be a toleration thing at best, my mom actually embraces it all with a contagious enthusiasm; delivering cookies, snacks, hugs and interpretive dance moves.
Takeaway: a bit of tinnitus and a tremendous amount gratitude.
Date: 2011, Thanksgiving
Time: 4:23 p.m.Location: 2116 Allston Way, Berkeley.
From my bed, I see my mom and my sister standing over my computer, looking at my iTunes playlists. In a Freaky Friday like type of situation, it's my mom pointing out esoteric, underground dance tracks to my sister. "Oh, you should check out this Moloko song" she says, "It's cool." I am tickled to no end. She can have all the walking music she wants!
Takeaway: This is why I love sharing music with others; one's cool cred is very malleable.
So all of that to say, yeah, I understood where she was coming from (hell, if you've been following fasterbarnacle at all these last few of years you get where she's coming from); content has been somewhat one noted. But I hope in all this lack of variety, the inspiration has been abundantly clear… Music is a little special to me.
A little ;-).
Happy birthday, mom. I love you!