Songs With My Sons

A musical experience for the soul

The crowd was a great mix. Young and old. New rockers and old souls. And that included my son and me. The venue was new to both of us—a former warehouse converted into a dark and brilliant space. The band was one my son had wanted to see for years. A few months ago, we tried and had to cancel. Now we were together, the two of us, inching our way closer to the stage.

“I like to get right up there,” my son said.

My son says Clutch plays what he calls unapologetic rock-n-roll. The guttural core of the music is steeped in bass and big chords. There’s a deep energy. It’s not Metal, it’s not Blues, it’s not Glam Rock of Stadium Rock. It’s instead a kind of deep, reverberating energy. And throw in provocative lyrics.

“And these guys have been at this for a long time,” my son said.

He was right. They looked like a bunch of fifty-year-old dads from a suburban neighborhood. Well, maybe except for the drummer. He’s old school Rock-n-Roller with his long gray hair, lanky build, and a bandana around his forehead.

But what was most satisfying was that my son and I were together, sharing something that’s been part of our lives for a very long time.

“Who wrote this song?” I’d ask while driving, my boys in the backseat. They were young, maybe 10 and 8. A song would come on the radio—Beatles, Dylan, CSNY—and I’d challenge them to a little contest about the song’s origins, the musicians, the meaning behind the lyrics. They got very good at it. Soon, they shared the songs they loved with me.

We attended our first concert together when they were still quite young—Crosby, Stills, & Nash. I admit, I kind of dragged them. But they had heard the songs coming from the car stereo system and had answered a lot of my challenge questions along the way. They knew the music.

“What’s that smell?” My older son asked. It was their first experience with the skunk-like odor of weed. “And do we stand like this the whole time?” He asked when the band stepped on stage and the crowd rose to their feet.

The next concert was at a minor league baseball stadium outside Chicago. It was Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson together. Weed. Again. (Certainly, for that concert, right?) And, standing again, this time in the cool night air. The boys knew some of the words to “Like a Rolling Stone.”

Music has been all around the three of us through many years. I played guitar and piano all my life, and regularly sang to the boys when they were babies and little guys. My older son took up the saxophone in middle school and learned to play “Tequila” quite well. He taught himself “Let it Be” on the piano. The younger son took bass lessons then drums. We bought him a full set. And soon, the two of us would jam—me on the electric guitar and him behind the set. We even played together at a school talent show. To this day, both of them regularly send me links to songs they’ve heard and want to share—something new. something old, something that strikes them, something they want Dad to be a part of. Our musical tastes differ now in a lot of ways, but there’s still a strongly linked overlap that we will forever share.

The most wonderful thing about kids and music is that it’s already part of us. They are born with it. It’s innate. It’s  a natural part of being human. We know that babies, even in the womb can hear sounds from as early as 18 weeks. Those lullabies are heard before they are born. Sharing music at all ages is an incredibly bonding experience. And it’s not just in happy times. It’s also when music matches our various moods—good and bad, happy and depressed. Listening to music can release dopamine into the brain, and researchers say dopamine not only helps our state of mind, but it’s also a necessary element of bonding with our children.

When the music ended that night with my younger son, we edged up closer to the stage, lingering in the moment as the lights rose. Roadies handed out to the remaining crowd the set lists that had been taped to the stage floor for the band members to see. Clutch’s drummer came out and tossed some sticks to the fans. And another roadie had gifts of guitar picks. My son got one. He smiled when it put it in his pocket.

It isn’t often these days that I can enjoy live musical moments with my sons anymore. Life gets in the way. But the ones I’ve had and the ones yet to come are a large swath of the fabric of our father-son relationships.

I couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

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David W. Berner writes personal narrative and fiction. His book, Daylight Saving Time: The Power of Growing Older is forthcoming from Collective Ink Publishing, UK.