I just saw the most beautiful but haunting and depressing PBS special on Woody Guthrie.
There's a thousand things to discuss; the inherent darkness of creative genius, the pitfalls of art becoming commerce, the political nature of art and the audience response involved, the weaving of this music with US history--the stuff about people...but mostly I just heard the songs I listened to growing up with dad.
They're playing it back to back with a concert of Bruce Springsteen doing his Pete Seeger album, also full of dad music.
I bought the Springsteen album this spring while he was in the hospital. I listened to it in the waiting room and promised dad that I'd loan it to him someday, maybe burn him a copy. It didn't happen.
Sometime around the time of my father's death, a dear older woman told me in the middle of a comforting hug that I could "feast on my memories of him for years to come". I hope to. I really, really, hope I can do that. Tonight, I'm choking pretty hard as I try to get them down.
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2 comments:
I understand. Somone played "Snowbird" the other day, and I had played it for dad on the guitar in the hospital and on the computer. It nearly blinded me.
I've choked my way through grief over the death of my mother while listening to music she loved. It's a bittersweet experience...
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