It is true that my son, Cash’s, namesake may be a certain country singer legend. And I sometimes wonder if perhaps by naming him after the man in black, his soul was somehow infused with a true love of music. Like a Latin American magical realism novel – the essence of one soul being passed on to another… I kind of love that. Regardless of Cash sharing a name with one of the biggest music gods of all time…Cash, my Cash, at 7 eats, breathes, sleeps – music.
The curiosity began with Johnny Cash. We listened to all his songs and watched old videos and interviews with him. Learned as much about his life story that a little kid could take. From there, Cash got turned on to The Beatles. Now, he listens to a Beatles song and tells you whether its Paul or John who’s singing. Elvis then became an obsession. Big time. One Sunday we were looking at photos of Elvis and, of course, his appearance changed so much over the span of his career. “Mommy, he was so handsome when he was young. But he doesn’t look so good in this picture.” That was when I had to try to explain the drug part of Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n Roll. Beach Boys. More awesome old videos with girls in bikinis dancing on stage. Cash loves the Beach Boys. Is it the melody? Or the girls in bikinis? Unclear.
Cash’s perspective split wide open when he hijacked my old phone, with Apple Music on it, and he realized the world of music is deep and wide. And, now, there is no going back. We made a deal – before he listens to anyone new, I have to okay it. And by that I mean, I have to, at least, know who they are.
Educating a non-judgemental, not-yet-jaded, virgin eared, young music-enthusiast is a beautiful thing. Cash is as game to listen to Nirvana as he is to Fleetwood Mac or Tom Petty. Most days he hums or sings or performs Bohemian Rhapsody or Under Pressure – “Mommy, this is where David Bowie sings” – at least once. He was going through an anxious time around starting camp, so he would sing Don’t Worry About A Thing (that was when I had to have the dread lock explanation talk) to make himself feel better. Cash hasn’t met a song he does not like. The other night when I was tucking him and his sister in, we all sang Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline as a bedtime song. On Barbra Streisand, he said, “She has a really good voice, mommy.” I think he discovered her right after Aerosmith, Def Leopard, and Van Halen. And now he is just one constant stream of music talk, “Well, of course, they like Bob Dylan.” “Mommy, do you know who The Cure is?” “Where in England do you think Queen lives?” “Why do you think Young left Crosby, Stills, and Nash?” “Why are they called R.E.M. (pronounced REM)?” “Do you think Dickey Betts is the best guitarist of all time?”
I suppose it could be argued that I should be saturating my young child in a language. Or Cello (he does take piano lessons – in his mind, just putting time in until he gets his first drum kit). Or soccer. But, this – Cash’s love for any and all kinds of music, both young and old, is just seeped with so much pure joy. And, maybe, it’s a little bit selfish. I’ve always been a music fan in every way – although much more snobby about it then Cash. Sharing music I love or am nostalgic about for some reason or other with both my children feels like a really authentic, intimate experience. Its like books. Reading and then sharing and relating with someone about a way you perceived what truly is so personal is such an experience in human connection. A reminder that we are all in this together. And we have beautiful things like art and food and books and music as life boats. To keep us afloat and united and sane.
So tomorrow, Cash is writing letters to each living member of Queen. “To tell them how much I love them mommy. Before they all die.” And then it will be another stream of new discoveries for him, walks down memory lane for me. And we will all rock out in the kitchen. Because, “Mommy, it just fills my heart with so much love.”
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