"Comfort Music"

At age two, my son asked for drums. We purchased a cute plastic set that he played like a pro. Paul also latched onto a harmonica at the same age, dancing around his room playing a singsong tune. He asked for a drum kit around age six. Tight on space, we purchased a Yamaha keyboard, found music lessons that combined singing with playing to temporarily satisfy his musical urge. His instructor, during her summer camps, encouraged her students to add another instrument to their playing skills. Paul asked my brother for the forgotten snare drum sitting in his closet. Every year, the subject of a drum kit surfaced. Because of space limitation, Paul ended up with both a bass and electric guitar. Although he enjoyed both, he still longed for a kit. By his fourteenth birthday, we decided to get rid of our guest room and fill it with drums. From the first second Paul held sticks in his hands, he played wonderfully. Before we knew it, he picked up a second kit, filling the smallest room with double bass beats and practicing with Neil Peart on loop. The summer he turned fourteen, Slipknot hit San Antonio with the Tattoo the Earth tour. My son, now thirty-six and an audio engineer, still prefers the music from that one crucial year when he’s looking for “comfort music” during a rough day.

Always curious, Paul dipped into recent brain studies searching for neurological reasons for music and genre preferences, discovering that most men’s “go to” music stems from what they listened to at age fourteen. For women, it’s age thirteen. Over the years, my husband’s purchased everything ever produced by The Beatles and Rush, the two groups he listened to endlessly as he entered his teen years. He picked up both bass and guitar during those years and serenaded his way through high school with “Blackbird” or “Fly by Night.” What did I listen to at age thirteen? The first 8-track I ever purchased was Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection. My comfort music, though, doesn’t center on a single performer or group. My mornings during my early teen years found me listening to KTSA as I dressed for school. Evenings our family played my parent’s records on the stereo, so Pete Foutain, Buddy Rich, or Chet Atkins entertained us. By nightfall, my radio played classical music. When I’m feeling down now, I’m just as likely to listen to Lizzo for a pick-me-up as I am Elton John. However, over the years I’ve rarely purchased my own CDs, and my iTunes is almost empty—except for Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and James Taylor—all favorites from the year 1970.

I leave with the question—What is your “comfort music”?

 

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     

"Theme Song"

             Recently, I’ve noted several friends refer to their “theme song.” They have one special melody or lyric that harmonizes with significant events in their lives. I’ve tried to think of my one special piece, but instead I hum out tunes from different periods of my life. In high school, it was Elton John’s “Daniel” playing on my 8-track. In college, I remember singing “Some Day Soon” by Firefall when I studied. After I got married, my music mixed with David’s—Eagles, Beatles, Heart, Billy Joel, Kansas, Yes, Rush. I didn’t listen to any one particular group, let alone have a “theme song” that represented my life at that time.

            The 80s blurred by with us searching out new sounds to counter the airwaves’ disco drone. Always a classical music lover, I remember listening at night to a local station that rasped, gasped, and hissed with poor reception; but I didn’t care. I discovered Jazz during these years, and I revisited all the big bands my parents introduced to me as a child. Never having much money during the early years of our marriage, we carefully picked each album we purchased. By the time our son turned two, he expressed a liking to many of the soundtracks for his favorite movies. We had the music from Beetlejuice, Mary Poppins, and half a dozen Disney animated films providing the beep and the bop to our road trips. Out of all of the songs, I never thought of one, though, as my theme.

            Decades merge with a multitude of musicians flavoring my life. Millions of words from lyrics spice up my thoughts at any given point in time, and I’ll sing a refrain or two out of the blue. I have no new favorite song at the moment that makes me think, “This is me!”  I keep waiting for a piece to tug at my heart or make me wanna dance. In the meantime, I wonder about everyone else out there. What is your special song? What makes it special for you?   

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games--Red Light, Green Light"

            A game of “Red Light, Green Light” often began with only a few of us scrambling from driveway to “Light”. The call, “green light” accompanied with the varied pause and then the shouted, “red light!” acted like the siren’s call, luring kids from throughout the neighborhood to dash with breakneck speed at the target. It never took long for the game to disintegrate into an endless argument on who got caught in movement by the “Light.” Before chaos descended, the game morphed into “Freeze Tag” or “Statues.” Both games shifted tension into uncontrollable bursts of laughter as bodies and faces contorted into hilarious positions.

            I loved “Statues” because one of the older boys would grab my wrists and spin me mercilessly. The world blurred into the muted colors of dusk as I tried to focus on something. Upon release, I’d soar through the hot summer air, capture a pose in midflight, and freeze into position once I bounced to a halt. Everyone wanted their turn to spin and throw me because of my pixie body and “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” good humor.

            As an adult, I’ve come to believe in the value of play. Not being on a team, coached and hemmed in by adults, but unfettered play within a diverse pack of kids that created its own hierarchy and rules. I didn’t get shuttled to and from structured soccer practices. I didn’t spend hours in lessons after school under more adult supervision. I know my mother listened to our games. I remember seeing her outline through the screen door when she snuck a peek at our antics. However, parental presence stayed in the background and the shadows through most of our evening play, emerging only when there was blood spilled or bones broken. All the fussing and fighting that came about as we struggled with pecking order? We accomplished this without adult input or supervision. This autonomy in play, I believe, is the greatest loss for the generations that followed my own.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman