Shared Music, Shared Moments
From the time my kids were born I did what my mother before me did: I played music in the house constantly
Elvis in the kitchen. Rolling Stones in the living room. The cast of Hair in the backyard. So many types of music lived in our house — and it didn’t matter what it was or who it was: the music always spoke to me, always reached my soul in a way few things could. It made me cry, feel joy, despair, happiness, sadness. It taught me about my own emotions. It possessed me. Enveloped in the words and the music, I navigated an unknown sea of feelings to find myself — and all from just opening myself to music.
Music became my ally, my secret friend, my salvation, in much the same way books were. As a kid with very few real friends, music became my comfort.
My mother dictated the music of the moment until I became old enough to buy my own records, when I’d ask record store clerks for suggestions; I had no problem with ceding control to my mother at that time, and in turn she’d lead me through nuanced details about everything we listened to, little trivial tidbits that grew in importance over time. She led me to appreciate each song for everything it was worth, divining and defining her passion with me. It was like having live liner notes for each record.
And over time, I swore that one day I would do the same for my own children.
I kept true to my word. From the time my kids were born I did what my mother before me did, and played music in the house constantly. When they became old enough to understand, I talked to them about the songs and albums I played. I gave history lessons on the musicians, I talked about the meaning of songs, and what they meant to me. I kept the CDs out in the living room so they could take from the collection whenever they wanted and while they often picked the CDs we had already been listening, they would occasionally try something new. I found great joy in hearing music coming from their bedrooms. My daughter would recite lyrics and delve deep into them all the time; my son picked up the guitar and started playing it nearly every waking moment. Music consumed them, it consumed us; it was our level playing ground in our relationships.
They grew older and started forming their own opinions and finding new artists to fall in love with, and in turn they began to share those new finds with me, in much the same way I shared with them; excitedly telling me about the artists and their songs, offering up little tidbits of information and trivia, discussing lyrics with me. We had overlap, but we also had our differences. My daughter went through a boy band phase; my son was once obsessed with KISS. But through good and bad, we never stopped sharing, never stopped listening together.
Some time in in late 2003, everything changed for me, music-wise. A friend sent me a CD. “It’s a local (Long Island) band,” he said. “You might like them.” I put Brand New’s Deja Entendu into the CD player and it happened: the magic feeling that comes when you listen to something that grabs at your heart and soul, something you know you’ll never want to let go. From the opening riff of “Tautou” to the last sound on “Play Crack the Sky,” I was hooked. I heard something so different from the nu-metal I was currently listening to; it sounded so earnest yet dark and brooding, perfect for my temperament at the time. It felt like a soft whisper to my heart when all I’d been listening to is screams. I fell in love with Jesse Lacey’s voice, with the lyrics, the music, the overall feel of the album. I sat for hours and listened to it over and over again, obsessing over each note, each word. It reached me in a way that few albums had. And my first thought after “This is my new favorite album” was “I have to share this with my daughter.”
We’d liked other bands together before, but I felt something different this time — a connection we both felt to the music that drew us into it on a deep level. With each listen, I felt like I was making not only a commitment to the band, but to shared moments with my daughter. My son later joined us in our Brand New fandom.
We spent years listening to the band together. Deja, back to their first album, Your Favorite Weapon, then our mutual love for The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me. We originally had a falling out over Daisy — Natalie hated it and I loved it — but she eventually came around. We devoured everything they did, bought vinyl (and cassette tapes) and sent each other links to anything written about them. Natalie got a Brand New tattoo. My kids saw them live at least a dozen times together, always begging me to go, but an anxiety disorder that had gotten worse over the years kept me from going with them, from having that moment together.
Then they announced they’d be playing Madison Square Garden, right about the time they made it known that they intend to call it quits in 2018. This might be my last chance to see them, I thought. My last chance to share this with my kids. I thought about it, and thought about it, and then Natalie and Daniel bought me a ticket as an early birthday present and my fate was sealed. I was going. I was going to see Brand New. I pushed back on the anxiety and I started counting down the days until July 14th. I scoured set lists on the internet to see what songs they were playing on the tour. I listened to nothing but Brand New for weeks on end. And when the date came, my desire to not let my kids down coupled with my need to see the band before they broke up helped me overcome my fears and I found myself on the Long Island Railroad, headed to Madison Square Garden.
I’ve been to a lot of shows in my life, well into the hundreds, starting from the time I saw KISS in the 70s, from dozens of Grateful Dead shows to a then unknown U2 in a small club, from Nick Cave to Queens of the Stone Age, so many favored bands, so many good times. But nothing felt like it did when Brand New took the stage that night. It was a culmination of things; my love for the band, a feeling like I was witnessing something great on the verge of being over; a small yet great moment in my music history. From the first notes of “Sink” and all the way through the show, I held on to each song, each moment, as something dear.
It’s toward the end of the encore set, during “Play Crack the Sky” when I turn and look at my kids standing next to me, seeing they were as caught up in the moment as I was. I was filled with emotion; from the song, from the fact that this would probably be my one and only time seeing them, from sharing this incredible experience with Natalie and Daniel. I felt joy, and it was good.
That show was a watershed moment, one that will go in the memory bank, probably something I’ll think about when I’m really old and looking back on life wistfully. The fact that the band is on the verge of breaking up has a lot to do with it; the chances for us to have had this experience were dwindling, especially given that I’m at the age of “I’m too old for this shit.” Watching them play, hearing all the familiar tunes live, sharing this experience with thousands of others including my own children, it all seemed so fleeting at the same time I was rooted in the moment. We’ll always have their discography. We’ll always have the memories of listening to them together, excitedly texting each other when new vinyl was released, sharing stories we read about them, and we’ll always have July 14th at Madison Square Garden.
Thank you, Brand New, for giving my kids and I shared experiences, especially during those teenage years when parent/child relationships are often marked by long stretches of silence. You gave us something to talk about, something in common. Thanks for everything.
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