Allow Me, Please, This One Indulgence

“I’ve been having the most fantastic dreams,” my dad said to me. “Wild dreams, like none I’ve ever had before. Filled with lights and incredible music and…” He paused and then, with a genuine bedazzlement that now eclipsed his usually stoic deportment, shook his head, then looked down and added, “They’re indescribable really.”

I nodded, barely taking note of the moment and scarcely engaged in the conversation. “Weird,” I think I muttered. It meant nothing to me. It was just another exchange in a lifetime of exchanges with my father. Just a few more words that we’d set free from our souls and into the air; drifting away in the breeze; neither of us bothering to give chase.
It seemed so damned innocuous at the time.

So here I am, wishing now that somehow I’d known then that those few words would be the ones that would likely haunt me forever. I wish I had known. I would have asked him to try and describe this indescribable music of his head. I wish I had known. I would have tried to hear what he was hearing: the strange music of chance; this inexpressibly exquisite noise that ran through my father’s sleepy and, unbeknownst to us at the time, dying subconscious. I wish I had known. I would have pursued this mysterious and apparently glorious racket that was so fantastic that it compelled my father - the man for whom, I was always convinced, the word stoic existed - to actually mention having dreamt it. Which was something my father never did - discuss his dreams. Dreams are private and impractical things; my father, if nothing else, was one of the world’s great and most eternal pragmatists.

I cannot help myself, I still find myself wondering: what was that sound? What could it have possibly been? Was it the cacophonous roar of fate, rolling headlong like a runaway train into all of our lives, stopping only to punch my dad’s ticket, and then roaring off…running, running, and running…screeching away down tracks…taking my father away to who knows where? Was it a compression of everything beautiful that he’d ever heard? The fantastic, unheard music of hundreds or thousands of forgotten voices now suddenly remembered? The endless rush of a lifetime of moments being relived - all in the blink of a sleeping eye?

I didn’t ask.

I wish I would have known.

It never dawned on me to ask.

But, the reality of things is that I didn’t really want to know much about this “music” in my father’s head at the time. It all just seemed routine. And that I missed how truly unique the moment really was: my father - my father - talking about a dream, his dream! That I missed the exceptional quality of this conversation, hindsight being what it is and all, is beyond me now.

Yet I let the moment slip right past me. And once again I allowed the words we shared an escape. I let them drift right by me. And they floated away…up, up, up, into the ether. Just like they had so many times before, probably too many times before.

If only I’d known.

As these last few significant words between a father and a son hung so quietly within our reach, dancing like confetti on a gentle wind, I hadn’t even a clue. I said goodbye and head home. My father turned and gave our fleeting words chase.
If only…

If only…

Fuck “if only”.

It all sounds damn good after the fact, doesn’t it? Of course it does. It’s almost easier than it is obvious. But that doesn’t change the honest fact that how most of us feel, or will feel, when we lose someone so very close to us is as confusing and mysterious as death itself. The real life urge for one more minute, one more conversation, one more laugh, one more hug (or in my father’s case, handshake!), one more anything, is unshakeable, haunting, and probably inevitable.

Yet, for me, it is also far too sentimental. Sentiment isn’t my strong suit. And if you’d ever met my old man you’d know that I got it honestly. “If only” is hardly a fair assessment of how I feel/felt. Ours wasn’t a relationship of “if only’s”. We left nothing behind. We had no regrets. He had all of the respect that I could possibly offer. And more importantly (to me) I knew that I had his. I loved the man, and there wasn’t any doubt at all that he loved me.

I’d seen my dad on Wednesday evening in the hospital. He’d looked tired, but not defeated. He seemed accepting, but somewhat somber. Everyone knew this was the end, that it was only a matter of time - days at best. An eternal stream of visitors, mostly family, but also a few close friends, was coming in and out to see my old man (to say their goodbye’s I’d supposed - but hardly believed). Having always been rather uncomfortable around so much extended family (well, okay, around people in general - any people) I became antsy and decided to head home. I hugged my mother, said my seeya’s to my two brothers, and gave a squeeze to my old man’s foot. He winked at me.

In my car driving home I’d like to say that something had told me that this would be the last time I’d ever see my old man, but that’s not the way things work when you’re dealing with real life. I wasn’t sure. But I am absolutely certain that a part of me was hoping that it was.

I didn’t want to be there when my father drew his last breath. That would have been the worst thing that could possibly have happened to me. And it was no way to remember my father - drawing that last lungful of air. I knew that if I was there, I would never be able to shake that image. That it would forever scar my memory. And that I would never be able to honor the old man the way I would want to in the rest of my lifetime’s musings about the guy. So in the car during the drive home I did something that I rarely do anymore: I prayed.

To whom, or what I prayed I do not know. But I sure as hell hoped that whoever, whatever, or wherever it was it was hearing me. “Please let my father pass in peace. And please let the news come to me in a phone call. I do not want to be witness to this moment of death.” A selfish sort of prayer to be sure (but aren’t they all? Oh my post-traumatic Catholic issues!), but as honest a prayer as I have ever said; one that I damn well needed to be heard.

I hated thinking about it so much so I turned on the car stereo and pushed the volume way up. Terry Fell’s “Truck Drivin’ Man”, punctuated by Don Rich’s agile electric guitar and warmed over by Buck Owens’ Bakersfield twang, shook the rear speakers and spooked my mind.

Buck Owens? Of all things, Buck fucking Ownes? What the hell did I grab this disc for?

Together Again/My Heart Skips A Beat is the record in question. It is the CD reissue (on Sundazed) of the classic 1964 Capitol collection of Owens’ finest songs and most of these songs were favorites of my father’s. So I drove, two hands steady on the wheel, ears open, and mind wandering. Owen’s drawl and Rich’s precision guitar faded in and out of my conscience. I was hardly listening but I was hearing. Hearing the first memories of the loss of my father come chug-chug-chugging at me in the easygoing rhythms of the Buckaroos flawless country pop perfection. I wondered how many times I’d heard these songs before. I wondered why I, without conscious thought, plucked this particular CD from the hundreds on the shelf. I wondered if my father was still breathing. I looked at my cell phone to see if I missed any messages while the stereo blared. Nothing. Then I said that same damn prayer again. “God, Buddah, Allah, Mohammed, whoever you are, let this weight pass me by.”

List of CD’s taken on a two-day whirlwind trip to Tennessee with my eldest brother to reclaim a car that’s been stolen from him a year and a half earlier (an effort which had been initiated by my father about three weeks before his passing and which, against my honest will, I partook in honor of his righteous ethics):

Bruce Springsteen Live at the Cleveland Agora 1978 (a thrilling 3 disc bootleg of Springsteen at his peak)

The Cult, Electric - in honor of my brother, and old school metal head

John Hiatt, Anthology because Hiatt had gotten me all the way across the USA back in 1987 when I left the Navy

Uptown Sinclair - because they are who they are: friends, homeboys, and a fantastic little rockroll band

Paul Westerberg compilation I’d burned for myself. Westerberg’s disappointing solo career has been filled with great moments, just not great albums. Thank God (or Allah, Buddah, etc) for CD burners

Buffalo Tom compilation I’d burned (see: Westerberg)

And here’s the kicker, and savior of the entire twenty-hours on the road: Robbie Williams’ Escapology!

My Robbie Williams Problem

Robbie Williams saved my life. That’s right, I said it - Robbie Williams saved my fucking life. He’s been saving it all goddamn year now, ok? Look, you people can scoff at me, you can roll your fucking eyes, you can twist your mugs with skepticism, you can take me out and stone the living shit out of me, but nothing is gonna sway me from liking, no make that loving this goddamn brilliant pop record!

As far as pop records go (and I’m talking about radio/mainstream minded pop - the sort with an eye as much or more so on the cash register as it does on its own quality, and the sort of which, I admit, I tend to be very unfamiliar) Williams Escapology roars out of the gate like very few others in recent memory. The first five tracks are flawless. It’s that simple.

Christamighty Hernon, what has gotten into you man? I mean, I understand your dad died and all of that, but is that really an excuse for sinking this far? Robbie Williams? Come on man!

See, I know what you people are thinking out there. I know it’s not very cool of me to stand here and tell you that Williams’ Escapology is one of the very few records this year to have proven itself to be a contender for lasting contemplation - but that is exactly what I am doing! I love this record. And I’ve loved it from the git go. Ever since I’d first seen Williams’ banned (and astonishingly good) video for his record business bashing anti-superstar song “Come Undone” this thing has had me by the balls. It still hasn’t let go.

Somewhere outside of Louisville, northbound on I-71, cutting myself an 80 mph pace in an effort to get home quickly and put this all behind me, I put “Monsoon” - track two on the US version of Escapology - on the very high-end stereo in my brother’s (used to be mine) decidedly un-high-ended Ford Taurus station wagon. I was in the home stretch of a drive that I’d never wanted to make after having won back my brothers stolen car in a court case that I’d wanted no part of. Two weeks earlier we’d buried my father under cool blue skies and a warm June sun. Now June’s sun was sweltering hot as humidity coalesced itself into menacing grey-white clouds and I found myself trapped in this sluggish monstrosity of a vehicle trying to ignore the unnerving rattle that set the entire front end into a vicious shake at anything over 68 mph. These weren’t the best of times and I wasn’t feeling very good about anything at all. But “Monsoon” changed all of that very quickly, or, at the least, helped me forget…

I’ve sung some songs that were lame / I’ve slept with girls on the game

I’ve got my Catholic shame / Lord I’m in purgatory
Basically, it’s all come on top for me

Don’t want to piss on your parade / I’m here to make money and get laid

Yeah I’m a star but I’ll fade
If you ain’t stinking your knives in me / You will be eventually

This self-deprecating anti-star/celebrity stance is tackled in nearly every damn song (all of which Williams is credited with co-writing) and is so effective at approximating real sincerity that it’s awfully damn difficult to argue that he isn’t. I find it refreshing, fun, and above all, funny.

Oh Lor’, I feel nothing / I know much smarter men never got this far

He sounds humble, and I want to believe him. But why should I? Robbie Williams (whose music I’d never heard before I bought my copy of Escapology) is, by all accounts, an enormous star worldwide. It seems everyone on Earth knows the man and his music (everyone, that is, except those of us in the United States of America - a place Williams, who is known to be cocky and arrogant as hell at times, just can’t seem to connect with). So with that sort of mega-success, why should I give a fuck about what Robbie Williams is saying? Moreover, why should I believe him?

I have no reasons…I just do. It’s a feeling; a vibe; an innate trust that is born of the perfect pop beauty in the first five tracks - “Feel”, “Monsoon”, “Sexed Up”, “Get A Little High”, and “Come Undone”. A quintet of fantastic English bred pop tunes that rival the heyday of Elton John’s 70’s chart dominance. Cheesy? Yeah, sure, but human emotions, when laid bare and true, always are! Lightweight? In a lot of ways yes, but again, the weight of our human experience doesn’t make for the best pop tune-age, so the smart ones lift a little bit of the tough stuff for us, and leave us with that which makes us feel a tad better. Escapist? Just look at the title - Escapology. Williams isn’t stupid, he’s an entertainer, and he’s damn sure gonna give it a go.

But the beauty of the music here is how it succeeds at making itself so endearing (and the tricks to that trade are not easy to master let alone own, as Williams does here) while addressing something as incomprehensible to the average schmuck as the ups and downs of this sort of mega-stardom that Williams enjoys. The cynical amongst us could easily shrug their shoulders, wrinkle their noses, and slag this stuff off as star-fucking rubbish. And a lot of them do. And who could blame them? Not me. I was once one of them.

But the other side of that coin is altogether different. Life is filled with ugliness and problems are real - regardless of your stature in life. Robbie Williams sings about the hollow feelings, the lost souls, the isolation, and the pressures to succeed, the need for more, better, faster. And for those of you who say “if only those were my problems, they ain’t so bad buddy” well, good luck to you. I don’t need those sorts of problems; I’ll take mine and live the quiet life. And on Escapology it sounds to me like Robbie Williams wouldn’t mind my life every now and then. He realizes that nothing in this material world of desires lasts. Because you see people, immortality is only a myth; albeit one that most stars so foolishly buy into.
“I’m not afraid of dying I just don’t want to” Williams asserts in “Come Undone”, a song that very well may wind up being the best thing I’ve heard all year. And once again he sings it like he means it. Granted, for the most part this is simple pop music, but simple pop music doesn’t have to be as youth oriented and mindless as it has become today and Robbie Williams sound as tired of that shit as I have become. For that alone he gets my endorsement! But that alone isn’t the case; this is a terrific little record that I just can’t shake. In fact I don’t want to shake it. It’s pulled me through some pretty shitty days here lately, and I’m all the better for it.

That music, noise, or whatever it was in my father’s head still stumps me. I keep trying to figure out what it possibly could have been…but I always come up empty. I know that it cannot translate into anything familiar, and that is what frustrates me the most. So now I settle for something easier on my mind: The David Brubeck Quartet’s Time Out.
My old man loved his music, and in a large way passed that on to me. He loved old country, hillbilly music, German waltzes, 50’s jazz, big bands, and Linda freakin Rondstadt. Oh how he loved Linda Rondstadt. I’ve heard enough Linda Rondstadt to last a lifetime (and I told the old guy those exact words more than once).

But he also admired David Brubeck. He’d read everything he could find about Brubeck and always seemed to know what the old jazz piano giant was up to for some reason or another. Now me, I am not all that familiar with Brubeck save for, like everyone else in the world, Time Out. But I know how much my father admired the man so….

I was standing in the bathroom shaving when the phone rang at 12:45 on June 5, 2003. It was my middle brother, Jim. He was crying. I knew why. My prayers were answered. I felt like shit about that, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

It’s an hour and a half drive from my place to my parents, but it felt like a day or two. I’d grabbed a few CD’s for the trip but the only one that made it into the car stereo was Time Out. Paul Desmond, Joe Morrello, Gene Wright, and David Brubeck tried like hell to compete with the music in my father’s head, but failed. They sounded as good as ever to me, but to my father nothing would ever again sound the same. I know now as I think back and recall that look in his eye as he told me about this wonderful music in his head - the indescribably beautiful and glorious chorus of his life going by - that nothing he ever heard here mattered anymore.

This was the finest music ever made. Nothing could compare.
Hell, not even Linda freakin’ Rondstadt could make music like this!

Yeah, I am sure as hell going to miss my old man. More than I probably realize right now. But I also know that if ever a man lived who took everything he wanted from life, if ever a man lived who left an indelible mark on every life he touched, if ever there was a man who felt grateful for the life he’d had, and if ever there was a man who wasn’t afraid of dying, it was my father. We just didn’t want him to.

Selah

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