Island in the Sun

For Christmas, my mother gave me a DVD version of an old home movie. Filmed over the course of two weeks when I was an ultra-exuberant four year old, it's a fascinating familial time capsule, mostly for reasons that aren't applicable here. However, there are two segments that contain my father filming me as I writhe/dance around the room. The first is Michael Jackson's  "The Way You Make Me Feel" and the second Dire Straits' "Walk of Life". It's a slice of late 80s life, showing what he was listening to in 1988 (thank Odin it wasn't Ratt), how he influenced me (both artists are still huge for me), and how important music/his music room was in his life (he has a reel-to-reel (!!) prominently displayed in his music set up). For the next 25 or so years we shared music in that same way, me foolishly bumbling about, him steadily guiding my tastes back to what was right.

He always shared with me from the minute music could make it's way into my ears. I can pinpoint at least twenty songs that I remember hearing with him first time as a young boy, always on his  killer system. Playing it in the wrong setting or on the wrong system was a waste of time. He would bring me down into his crazy music room, turn down the lights and blast my prepubescent ears off with whatever thrilled him. I'm not sure I always got it, and I just assumed that everyone's dad wanted them to hear the Spin Doctors "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" at neighbor-rattling levels,  but it was cool. All I knew was, I wanted to return the favor.

There was rarely a prouder moment for me than when I could bring something home to share with HIM. Due to the basic restrictions of youth, I didn't really have the chance to do this until I struck out on my own, went to college and started coming home with burned CDs. Sharing and getting the nod of approval from my friends was a big deal, but bringing something to him was akin to Indy picking the correct Holy Grail. I found a few of said CDs recently and well, those first few times were pretty rough. Thankfully, I got better at it. Whether it was the refinement of my taste, me being more attuned to what he was going to like or a combination of many things, it got to the point where I knew immediately if it was going to pass the test.

Looking back, what amazes me the most is that he never, ever, not even once, criticized anything I brought him (and I brought him some real rubbish). Over time, I learned to decipher his code though. The more artists he cited as derivational influences, the more he was just placating me, patiently waiting for the next song on my queue. However, the more specifics he mentioned about the musicianship/vocals, the more he dug it. Every now and again, I'll be damned if I don't find myself doing the same thing now when I listen to newly recommended music.

That brings us around to Bahamas is Afie. It was one of those albums (like countless others) where my first thought was to send it to him. In fact, I was a mere three tracks in, driving to the store with my wife when I went to Amazon on my phone, immediately shipping him a copy. Upon it's arrival, my sister was serving the role of his DJ at this point in his life and she cued it up. I didn't have the pleasure of experiencing it with him that first time, but I already knew. The man who taught me how to love music had already molded me and my tastes in a way where there was no way he could be let down. Though he had lost the ability to communicate verbally, my suspicions were none the less solidified when I got a text from my sister saying he wanted to hear it again. This was the ultimate level of acceptance. Play it again.

Normally these entries are more focused on the music itself, and this album brings that in spades. It's bathed in gorgeous melodies, soothing strings and subtle guitar flourishes. It has all the harmonies, flawless production and easygoing Canadian demeanor that any album could want. But the lyrical content is what really stands out. Figuring out the complexities of time, loss and balancing all the world throws at you are fairly common ground for musicians. But this collection of ruminations struck a chord that I know resonates throughout my bloodline.  My sleeping son awoke just now, literally bobbing his head fresh out of slumber, the minute "All the Time" came on. Eating a rice puff concoction a few moments later he relentlessly shuffled his feet to "Little Record Girl". This will forever be that album.

 The way life goes meant this was the last album we ever "shared". It will resonate with me the same way those aforementioned songs did long ago when my dad played them for me the first time. It's worth listening to for a variety of reasons, a few of which were mentioned above. But in the end, the gift it gives me is the same gift my father was able to imbue in me; a love and appreciation for an art form rivaled by no other.  It goes without saying how deeply I will miss my dad. Thankfully he will forever live on in music like this. Play it again.