The Musical Ties That Bind

by editor Michele Catalano

He is five years old, and we’re in the living room in our basement apartment in my grandmother’s house. The Beastie Boys’ Hello Nasty is on the turntable. He sits at his little table, coloring and humming through the likes of “Remote Control” and “Body Movin,’” tapping his feet and humming along. It’s when “Intergalactic” comes on that he springs to life, practically upending the tables, the crayons, the Power Rangers coloring book. He’s front and center in the living room, and he does this thing where he squats his legs and pretends he’s singing into a microphone. He knows every word, but emphasizes “also known for the Flintstone Flop,” at which point he falls to the floor, delighted. The Beastie Boys and the Offspring are his favorite bands. 

She is three, and we’re at an outdoor flea market. I stop by the middle-aged guy selling records and flip through some bins of mostly classic rock albums. She’s in her stroller, and I notice she’s agitated and pointing at something. She’s kicking her legs excitedly, saying, “I want that record!” It’s Green Day’s Dookie. I buy her the cassette. She still has it.  She sleeps on the way home, and when we get into the house, she runs excitedly to the record player, shouting “Dookie! Dookie!” When I put it on, she dances through a few songs, until she plops herself on the floor and falls asleep.

Their lives have been intertwined with music since they were very young. I always had something playing: my albums, their sing-along cassettes, Raffi and Tom Chapin videos, the radio. There was always something on, and because of that, music became an integral part of their lives. 

When they were young, I could direct them, tell them what was good to listen to. They had no real outside influences as far as music went. They knew what I played in my car (hence their knowing Sublime lyrics as toddlers), what I spun at home (a lot of nu-metal), what they had on CD (they still loved their children’s music like Raffi and Tom Chapin). It wasn’t really a closed world because they had my parents, who introduced them to the Beatles and Pink Floyd and show tunes. 

He is 10, and has picked up the guitar. He listens to classic rock. I have a picture of him at this age, in a RATT T-shirt. He mimics Eddie Van Halen. He plays Weezer’s “Only in Dreams” and talks to me about how sad the song is. He’s listening to a lot of the music I listened to in high school.  It makes me have weird feelings about the passage of time. I think about how I was trying to influence him with modern music, and the minute he started playing the guitar he fell into the music I gave up many years ago. Still, I’m happy for him to have found something on his own. He’s very good at playing guitar.

She is 13, and has discovered emo music. She listens to Brand New and Taking Back Sunday, and unlike with her brother, I embrace this music and listen to it with her. I buy the records she wants to hear because I also want to hear them. We make trips to Looney Tunes CDs and Records and bond over picking out albums. Because she is 13, I value this time with her. I know it’s only a matter of time before the gulf that exists between a teenage daughter and mother appears. 

As they become teens and move into their own little worlds, I use music to keep us connected. I take DJ to Guitar Center once a week, where he has a little fan club of workers who gather around to watch him play. One day, he plays “Maps” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and the Guitar Center manager whispers to me ,“He’s growing up.” Yeah, I know. Classic rock has to make room for indie and alternative. This is fine, as it gives us more music to listen to together. Although those moments are becoming less and less frequent. 

Music takes them through broken friendships and broken hearts. They’re still young enough, barely, to run to Mom when things are rough. I console, I empathize, I listen. Maybe we’ll head out and buy a record or CD. The record store is still our great equalizer. When we’re in the aisles, poring over used records that feel new to us, we’re a team. We’re in this together. When we get to the counter, the clerk smiles at us, says how much she loves to see families record shopping together.

They are young adults. Suddenly. They have busy social lives. They are working. We don’t see each other as much. It feels as if we’re never home at the same time.  But I’m so grateful to have music act as a rickety bridge over that gulf. 

My son’s Guitar Center days are long gone; instead, we go out to dinner once a week, and the conversation is always about music. What we’re listening to, what we like and what we hate, what new records we’ve bought.

We are eating penne ala vodka at the Italian restaurant across from the Paramount Theatre, where we will be seeing Norm Macdonald. I savor the conversation, the company. As we eat, we talk about Pavement, and he tells me his new favorite band is the National. I’m newly into them, and I am thrilled to share that fandom with him. 

Natalie takes me to a Kevin Devine show on Mother’s Day. I hold onto her arm during “Brother’s Blood” and can feel her goosebumps. I cry a little. I appreciate the moment, and the music that made it possible.

They are full-fledged adults, and I am divorcing their stepfather, who left me a few earlier. Natalie does a lot of hand-holding. She sends me music for healing, music for heartbreak, music for moving forward. She consoles, she empathizes, she listens. The music, always the music, brings us together. I borrow my son’s Elliot Smith albums and wallow a little. I think about coming full circle, with my kids helping me navigate a heartbreak through music, as much as I helped them in the same way.

Somewhere is a VHS tape that shows DJ dancing to “Intergalactic.” Somewhere, probably on that same VHS tape, is a few moments of Natalie listening to Type O Negative for the first time. It’s okay if I don’t find them. The moments are embedded in my brain, and in my heart, for safekeeping. 

I’ll never forget DJ yelling, “Separated!” first thing in the morning because he wanted to hear Offspring’s “Self Esteem.” I’ll never forget Natalie asking for Dookie at the flea market. I’ll never forget any of the moments when music bound us together. I am forever grateful that moments like those are still happening.

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