My Dad and I have a Friday night tradition. It isn't sitting around the dining table with a Monopoly game board, or sitting down to watch a movie together (not that there's anything wrong with those). Instead we scutter down the stairs, plug in our instruments, and make some noise. After practice, and playing, and finding where our styles mix and the notes blend together, and having a few train-wrecks, we had something. I don't think I knew what making a connection to someone was until then, until we had a musical conversation. Like any other conversation, it's important to listen. To find space, to fill it, to change tempo when everyone else is changing. With his six strings and my four, we would talk and talk for hours. It became second nature before too long, a source of pride. This was something we had, whenever we needed it. When words were exhausted (when we were exhausted) we always had a way to speak, to lift our spirits, and after a while, we figured we had to share it.
Soon enough, one of my Dad's friends he hadn't talked to in a long time showed up, they had gotten back in touch, and figured it was about time they play together again. (Back at their old job, they would sit out at break and play the blues together on old acoustic guitars). Of course, it was awkward at first. He had to find his place in our rhythm, this iron-bound, time-tested connection. The first jam, we sat down and half-cut through the old songs they remembered, everyone finding their pace and place in the middle of the mix. We were all reserved, but it was fun. We smiled as the amps were unplugged and the instruments were packed away, But when we met again, we were ready. We had felt each other out, where we slowed, sped up, when dynamics shifted. That first time was like a orientation day game, a way to get to know each other. But this time, we talked, we weaved in and out of conversation. Two guitars and a bass, all having their voices heard from improvisation to The Grateful Dead's Lovelight.
The last Friday we got together, we added more elements to the group. Another friend of ours joined in, smiling, impressed as he walked into the basement and heard the ensemble we had together. He hopped on the drums unafraid of jumping in, and there we had it. We started in like all four of us had been there all along, playing together in the spirit of the Friday nights that came before it. Eventually, even more friends showed up, a whole family, my friend his brother and their father. They watched, sang, played a little, and it fit so well. The whole night rolled together in the harmonious atmosphere music brings, that people can bring, too. Six-thirty turned to seven-thirty and onward unto midnight. Our arms and fingers were tired, but we were beaming. All of these people, speaking in the most earnest and honest of conversations. One made of notes and beats and measures instead of words (because even as a writer, I know words can only do so much). We decided from then on, that these friends needed to be a part of our Friday nights, that the dialogue only became more beautiful when we brought all of these voices together. I learned that for me, there is no greater way to connect than through sound and music. All of that, thanks to my father, Friday nights, and a bass guitar.
