My dad was a music fan. He couldn't play an instrument to save his life, but he tried, by God he tried. Many a Saturday morning I awoke to his clipped and clumsy attempts to replicate something resembling a Beethoven sonata. He finally sold the piano and conceded that piano (and eventually) guitar playing were not to become his all consuming passion(s). Instead, he just listened more intently to other people's music trying to squeeze out every drop of satisfaction that he possibly could.
I listened along with him when he brought home the Beatles white album. Such fun we had singing along with those silly songs about piggies, raccoons and honey pies! He had my sister and I singing alongside Mel Torme, Harry Belafonte and Joan Baez and sent us outside when he cranked up the Miles Davis or the London Philharmonic. He had no interest in Elvis Presley, seemed to actually loathe him because he never wrote any of the songs he sang and was therefore (according to dad) talentless. He was equally unimpressed about the stuff that my sister and I gravitated towards (John Denver, Pink Floyd, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Frank Zappa for me; Olivia Newton-John, Heart and REM for my sister).
When we lived in Houston, my dad went to The Summit to see Elton John, Neil Diamond and Fleetwood Mac. He once took me to see Roy Clark at a smaller venue (I was a budding banjo student at the time), and because I begged, he took the whole family to see John Denver in 1975. When I was in high school, I bought two tickets to go see Men at Work at the Reunion Arena in Dallas, hoping to find a girl who would go with me. When I finally came to grips about the reality of that possibility, I asked my dad to come along. He had a great time... even though I believe his hearing impairment began in earnest at that show.
He loved classical and most kinds of Jazz. He loved folk (The Four Freshmen and The Kingston Trio). He learned to appreciate bluegrass, because I loved it so much and we spent at least a few hilarious hours listening to stupid songs on the Dr. Dimento Show. But for my dad, the one and only true living legend was Bob Dylan. It would be safe to say he was a Bob Dylan freak. He had every album, bought every book about or by him and even loved the few films he was in. He and I went to one Dylan show in Dallas, and we agreed it was awful, but for my dad, the Man could do no wrong musically, even if he had an off night or if the sound system was sub standard.
For many years my dad lived in the musical desert of Waco, Texas and never could bring himself to travel to Austin or Dallas to go see a show, so he stayed home and dreamt of a day when he'd live in a real city. Eventually that day came and he found himself in the Washington DC area. He and his wife were constantly concert going. They took train trips up to New York to see the Metropolitan Opera, or they'd get on the Metro and go see Odetta or Trout Fishing in America at Wolf Trap. Often, he'd go by himself to go see Bob - 3, 4 or 5 times a year, sometimes 2 nights in a row. That's devotion. He said he went so often because you'd never know what Bob was gonna do and that he'd never play the song song the same way. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
Don't get me wrong, I'm a Dylan fan too, of course, but you know, there's a limit... well for most of us there's a limit.
My dad had what might be called a difficult relationship. We pissed each other off, we confounded each other and we searched for "safe" topics of discussion. Well, music and Bob was pretty comfortable and one year I decided that I'd record my own version of Blood on the Tracks for him. Because I'm a pretty sloppy musician, I called my version Crud on My Slacks. It took me a long time to create and when I finally decided I was done, it went out to him without Idiot Wind or Meet Me in the Morning, but with a Bonus Track of Every Grain of Sand. He said he liked most of it.
On May 1 of this year, my dad died after an astonishingly brief battle with lung cancer. At his memorial service in Denver I sang a version of Every Grain of Sand. I don't know if my voice was wobbly or if the guitar was out of tune... I do know I messed up one of the lines. My dad used to always say of my art (visual and musical), that if it was perfect, it wouldn't be me. I like to think he was reclining in his lazy boy listening to me trying to replicate something resembling something his hero wrote and grinning a quiet grin. Liking most of it.
For my dad and any other Dylan fans out there, here's a couple from Crud on My Slacks
Every Grain of Sand
You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go