Mirages of my father
My father kept a roof over my head—and barstools as well. Under tavern tables is where my brother and I sheltered, playing make-believe as young children when my father—a bluegrass musician—played his regular gigs at local bars. Beneath those tables, we tried to tune out the incessant twang of “Rocky Top” but managed to absorb some of the progressive lyrics of Woody Guthrie. The truth was, his fans couldn’t get enough, and we couldn’t care less. We knew we would always play second fiddle to his music.
Like so many artists, my father was not a man of great means. A consummate entertainer, he was rich in friendships and social connections. Any given meal he ate or trip he took was likely earned through his talent and charisma. I remember being eight years old, watching him charm his way into backstage passes at a jazz concert. All he needed was a few minutes of conversation with the ticket agent to work his magic. It was like witnessing a masterclass in connection. There were very few people who couldn’t be drawn into his orbit. My father: the sun to keep circling.
When I was nine, a string of infidelities to my mother led to separation, reconciliation, another separation, and ultimately a divorce. It destroyed my sense of stability and relationship with my father. It wasn’t until well after college, when I landed a job as a labor organizer near his home in suburban D.C., that we became friends.
We’d meet for Indian food every couple of weeks. He’d listen to me complain about office politics or recount conversations I had with workers during overnight shift changes. After lunch, we’d poke around thrift stores—a favorite pastime of his—or attend movie matinees. On my birthday, he’d take me shopping, helping me pick out suits and blazers to equip me as a professional in the working world. Occasionally, I’d accompany him to his regular weekly gig at a popular D.C. live music venue, where he’d parade me around to his friends and fans like I was the light of his life--because that’s what I’d become. It was all that I’d missed as a child. And for me, it was better late than never.
Similarly, reflected in my eyes was what his fans saw in him—a larger-than-life musical presence in a room, a pithy and clever MC with an encyclopedic repertoire of songs. He could hear a song once and play it forever.
But for all his charisma, my father could also be irascible. Our relationship followed an ebb and flow of hurt and reconciliation. As he got older, his tongue grew looser. More acidic.The last time I let him in my house, he told me how fat I was getting. That was three years ago. There’s only so many times I could place their hands on a hot stove before leaving the kitchen altogether.
In mid-December, while wrapping Christmas gifts for my children, I received a call from an unknown number. On the line was the Baltimore County Police Department, informing me that my father had died.
When an artist passes we mourn not only their presence on this earth but the future creative work we’ll never get to experience. Most of us are lucky if we find a few old voicemails from our loved ones after their passing. For me, there is a cache of YouTube videos of my dad’s performances and hard copies of his studio recordings. This is both fortunate for his fans and followers and profoundly sad for us.
Anyone who has rewatched a video they’ve taken at a concert knows that these are but one-dimensional projections of the live music experience. For my dad, we can replay the experience of sharing space with him, but it pales in comparison. We’ll never again laugh at the way he might have strung together a pithy sentence, performed one of his original songs, or played a cover in his own way.
And yet, I am holding onto these projections—these mirages of my father. I spend the lonely, sleepless nights that have come to me this season scouring YouTube for performances of my dad I haven’t seen yet. I’ve spent countless hours since his passing learning to digitize his music from cassette tapes, ripping CDs, and navigating the legal and logistical intricacies of music distribution to make his work available on streaming platforms.
And why am I so focused on preserving his music? I want—no, need—to know that the end result of detonating his family life for the purpose of this musical venture was worth it. That the sum of everything we lost added up to something greater, at least for someone else, for the world. That his presence brought joy and made the world a little less lonely, even if it came at our expense. I don’t want his presence to be forgotten, nor do I want to forget what it felt like to exist in his shadow when he loved me.
