This month I purchased tickets for the Def Leppard concert on August 8 in Toronto. This being my first ever concert (!), I’ve been reflecting on the role music (and lack thereof) played throughout my life.
Both my parents benefited from classical music training. I'm told Father played piano with expert skill during his youth, though I never once saw him go near one. (When his grandmother passed away, she bequeathed him the piano in her will—out of hundreds of descendants—but he gave it up and never expressed interest in accepting it from his uncle’s home where it still sits.) But while he no longer played, he treasured the cassettes he had with the pieces from Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. He'd pop these in on Saturday nights and nostalgically hum or whistle to the tune.
As I grew, most of my friends listened to typical Jewish artists. Singers like Yaakov Shwekey, Meydad Tasa and others were popular for renditions of biblical verse and prayer to tunes that were not dissimilar to pop music. Father considered this a desecration of holiness and forbade it from entering our home.
No music, no novels, no school, and no friends. Fear of daily physical violence aside, the stripping of all play and joy would be sufficient cause for any number of childhood mental illness—if I wasn’t so deep in survival mode.
Ema did play for us—if you could call it that. She had a wooden recorder on which she played short educational songs as part of our homeschool when we were quite young. But my favourite was watching her assemble and play her beautiful silver flute. She played it about once a year. She was no professional performer, yet I marvelled at her ability to carry a tune while using an instrument that required such stamina. I liked that there was something my mother could do, that I didn't know how. There wasn't much in this category by the time I was about 10. Somehow this little once-yearly shindig made me feel safe.
***
When we left Israel following Father's arrest in 2009, Ema packed up her flute and gifted it to our cousin Binyamin saying we had no room to bring it. I was devastated and begged her to keep it. Later I understood that I was feeling the pain of watching her pack off and send away what was almost a final piece of her individuality. What's worse, it didn't seem to pain her at all. It's almost like she feared the pain of holding on over letting go. Father's arrest could have changed everything if she let it. But now I know for sure that she was too far gone to ever let go of her own will.
When I moved in with my grandparents for a brief time, I'd play tunes by Mordechai Ben David and Abraham Fried and sing along with my Bubby in the kitchen. Despite our fraught relationship, this is a memory we both cherish. I can still feel that joy and freedom of those movements ingrained in the cellular memory of my body.
But the musical moment that changed everything was the first time I heard Unforgiven by Metallica.
It was midnight when I finished my shift at Park Plaza retirement home where I worked reception between classes during my final two semesters at college. Before he left that afternoon, the director asked my co-worker Rene to give me a ride home after a shift. Chicago streets were not ideal for a girl walking home alone at night. Rene was a naval engineer from the Philippines, but in the US had to work maintenance and odd jobs to support his family. He drove a big white van you'd expect from someone who did contractor work. I hopped up into the passenger seat, and when Rene turned the key, a song blared through the speakers. The singer's voice sent a chill through my soul beneath the brashness of the drums. "What is this song?" I asked. Rene looked at me like I came from another planet. "That's my band, we play a cover of The Unforgiven by Metallica."
Rene dropped me off and I ran up the stairs to the room I was renting from Laura and searched it up on YouTube. The lyrics and the tune were a perfect reflection of my life at this exact moment. Life felt unforgiven… since forever.
Before I could consider forgiveness, I needed to release emotion. Music helped me cry. I'd play the same song on repeat in my earphones and soak my pillow through with silent sobs.
***
You only have to join me on a car ride to discover that I did not inherit any of my parents’ musical talent. While not tone deaf, my singing is terribly off key though significantly less so when I sing in Hebrew (?!). But nowadays, music brings me joy. I have developed an eclectic taste and do not favour any single band or singer but rather pick and choose songs I like regardless of the artist. While driving my five-year-old son to his swim lesson yesterday, Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters was playing on the radio. Here’s how the conversation went.
Me: “G, this song is called Nothing Else Matters by Metallica”
G.: “Yeah, I LIKE it!”
Me: “You also like Def Leppard, right?”
G: “No, I don’t like Def Leppard anymore. I like Sisters of Mercy”.
Me: ….
😂