On Music: First Attempt

I am not a musical person. I do not play an instrument. I know nothing about theory or technique. I cannot carry a tune.

And so it comes as a surprise to me that I go listen to live jazz every Monday night, that some of my most favorite people in Minnesota are musicians, that music has become an integral part of my life.

But perhaps it shouldn't surprise me. While I was growing up, I often joined my mother in her darkroom as she made pictures appear out of nowhere. Phantom of the Opera, Bruce Springsteen, Melissa Etheridge, and the Indigo Girls accompanied those times. Les Miserables, Neil Diamond, and Helen Reddy were road trip staples as we drove across the country to visit Grandma Mae, to attend family reunions, to go anywhere. I grew up on the Boss, Bob Seeger, and Fleetwood Mac.

My love for these musicians makes sense. Many memories are formed by them.

But there are others that don't make as much sense.

I do not recall the first time I heard Van Morrison, but his voice, his lyrics, his everything arrested my attention. I hear a Van Morrison song and I am carried away. Whatever is happening right in front of me doesn't matter. What matters is that Van Morrison is singing and I must listen.

"Into the Mystic" is, hands down, my favorite song. Not my favorite Van Morrison song. It's my favorite song. Period. Again, I don't recall the first time I heard it, but I do recall the first time I realized why it was my favorite.

My mother is a photographer. Before she became a children's photographer, she photographed weddings. I would occasionally join her as an assistant—hauling cameras around, making sure people were lined up correctly, keeping children from knocking over her lights. At one wedding mom was working, the couple's song was "Into the Mystic." I leaned over to my mom and said, "This is my favorite song."

She pulled her camera away from her eye and looked at me. "Really?" she asked, a little skeptically.

"Yeah," I replied. "Why?"

"It was your dad's favorite too."

I have vivid memories of my dad from before he died when I was five. Most of them are tender or amusing. Only one of them involves music: us singing "American Pie" by Don McLean. But "Into the Mystic"? I don't remember that one. It's one I came to on my own—I think.

For the past four years I have pestered the Monday night jazz group to play Van Morrison. I have begged and pleaded and, yes, probably even whined a little. They simply will not do it. So imagine my surprise when, several weeks ago, the guitar player sat at my table during their break and said, "Lauren, you must come to our show in August. I'm singing 'Caravan.'" I think I gasped and clapped my hands together and jumped up and down a bit. In short, I was excited.

Tonight I went to that show. Tonight I listened as M. sang "Caravan." It's possible that a tear or two escaped. I sang along and clapped and cheered my little heart out. The only thing that kept me from rushing the stage to give M. a hug after he finished was that there was a row of people between me and the stage.

I do not know the science behind what connects us to those we have loved and lost. I know only that the connection exists. And sometimes it's a song that makes the connection a little less distant.