Musician Dad Quotes

My kids are starting to notice I'm a little different from the other dads. "Why don't you have a straight job like everyone else?" they asked me the other day. I told them this story: In the forest, there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. Every day, the straight tree would say to the crooked tree, "Look at me...I'm tall, and I'm straight, and I'm handsome. Look at you...you're all crooked and bent over. No one wants to look at you." And they grew up in that forest together. And then one day the loggers came, and they saw the crooked tree and the straight tree, and they said, "Just cut the straight trees and leave the rest." So the loggers turned all the straight trees into lumber and toothpicks and paper. And the crooked tree is still there, growing stronger and stranger every day.

It was better to meet friends at their houses, their mother, Aurora, explained, because Dad had a lot of breakable things around the farm. One of the breakable things: Aurora Lynch. Golden-haired Aurora was the obvious queen of a place like the Barns, a gentle and joyous ruler of a peaceful and secret country. She was a patron of her sons’ fanciful arts (although Declan, the eldest, was rarely fanciful), and she was a tireless playmate in her sons’ games of make-believe (although Declan, the eldest, was rarely playful). She loved Niall, of course – everyone loved larger-than-life Niall, the braggart poet, the musician king – but unlike everyone else, she preferred him in his silent moods. She loved the truth, and it was difficult to love both the truth and Niall Lynch when the latter was speaking.

It's not right, man,” Jay said, following my stare. “Some guys have all the luck.” “What?” I finally broke my trance to look at Jay. “That guy, the drummer? Get this. He's a killer musician, he gets tons of chicks, his dad's loaded, and as if that wasn't enough, he's got a friggin' English accent!” I had to smile at Jay's mix of envy and admiration. “What's his name?” I hollered as the third song started. “Kaidan Rowe. Oh, and that's another thing. A cool name! Bastard.” “How do you spell it?” I asked. It sounded like Ky-den. Jay spelled it for me. “It's A-I, like Thai food,” he explained. Kai, like Thai, only yummier. Gah! Who was this girl invading my brain?

Dad says that Elvis Presley lived in Memphis and was a musician (not that you would know that from the crap songs that Dad sings). Anyway, he was a musician and Masimo is a musician, ergo Memphis must be somewhere that musicians hang out.

It's a difficult path that we tread, us Indie self-publishers, but we're not alone. How many bands practicing in their dad’s garage have heard of a group from the neighbourhood who got signed by a recording company? Or how many artists who love to paint, but are not really getting anywhere with it hear of someone they went to art school with being offered an exhibition in a gallery? How many chefs who love to get creative around food hear of someone else who’s just landed a job with Marco Pierre White? There’s no difference between us and them. There is, however, a huge difference in how everyone else perceives the writer. And there’s a huge difference between all of us – the writers, the musicians, the composers, the chefs, the dance choreographers and to a certain extent the tradesmen - and the rest of society in that no one understands us. It’s a wretched dream to hope that our creativity gets recognised while our family thinks we’re wasting our time when the lawn needs mowing, the deck needs painting and the bedroom needs decorating. It’s acceptable to go into the garage to tinker about with a motorbike, but it’s a waste of a good Sunday afternoon if you go into the garage and practice your guitar, or sit in your study attempting to capture words that have been floating around your brain forever.

Night after night I would speak to Violet in the womb (no matter how strange that may seem to some people) because I was looking forward to the day when I would hold her in my arms, no longer just talking to my wife’s pajamas like a fucking lunatic. When the day finally came, I was nervously packing up the car to go to the hospital when I noticed a huge rainbow overhead, something that happens maybe once every thousand years in Los Angeles. I was immediately calmed. Yes, it sounds nauseatingly romantic, but yes, it’s true, and I took it as a sign. After a long and difficult labor, Violet was born to the sound of the Beatles in the background, and she arrived screaming with a predetermined vocal capacity that made the Foo Fighters sound like the Carpenters. Once she was cleaned up and put under the little Arby’s heat-lamp bed, I put my face close to hers, stared into her gigantic blue eyes, and said, “Hey, Violet, it’s Dad.” She immediately stopped screaming and her eyes locked with mine. She recognized my voice. We stared at each other in silence, our first introduction, and I smiled and talked to her as if I had known her my whole life. I am happy to say that, still to this day, when we lock eyes it’s the same feeling. This was a love I had never experienced before. There is an inevitable insecurity that comes along with being a famous musician that makes you question love. Do they love me? Or do they love “it”? You are showered with superficial love and adoration on a regular basis, giving you something similar to a sugar high, but your heart crashes once the rush dies off. Is it possible for someone to see a musician without the instrument being a part of their identity? Or is that a part of the identity that the other loves? Regardless, it’s a dangerous and slippery slope to question love, but one thing is for certain: there is nothing purer than the unconditional love between a parent and their child.

But artists and writers and musicians like your dad are helpless to resist the dark side’s pull. This is territory that books know well, and it’s our job not to turn away from it, whether we like it or not.

Tutor: I’ve known lots of students who couldn’t read and who were extremely smart. They all learned to read when they were taught the right way. And they went on to do pretty cool things, like become scientists, engineers, professors, musicians, and teachers. [Tim approaches table and starts bouncing gently on the ball] How’d they do that? I’ve had millions of lessons and I still can’t read. Tutor: Well, we would start with games, not books. We’d do lots of different things and figure out exactly what works for you. And you’d have to be willing to practice some easy reading exercises at home with your mom or dad for five minutes every day. [Tim

Was it my idea to have him hurt me, or did he just let me think it was? And that gets sewn into them young, doesn’t it? Violence. I’ve had to go to some fairly extreme measures to defend myself. I used to think about older men, even before Lesley. I had an imaginary sugar daddy; I had affairs in my head with actors and musicians thrice my age; I had intentional and prolonged eye-contact with my dad’s friends. Whether I’m in control or losing it, I’ve always had a power thing, I think. I never do things like this with women. I never did anything like this with Frank. There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.

There's something I think about a lot, ok; and it's- a-a Dave Grohl story. But, when he talks about becoming a musician, and he talks about his mom who is a music teacher; his dad was a politician, and he knew right away he wanted to play music. So he's like thirteen, fourteen years old, fifteen I think... and he went to his mom and he said, "Mom, I'm gonna, y'know, jump in a van with these guys and we're gonna tour around and we're gonna play music and I'm not gonna go to school anymore... because this is what I have to do." And y'know what she said? "Go for it." And I just wonder, I mean, why all parents aren't like that. I mean if he had fallen on his face, they would still be there to pick him up because that's their responsibility. But for them to even say, "Go for it- Yeah, leave school" And he always jokes about it; it's like, "This is what happens when you drop out of school" and I love that line; it's hilarious because it's like theres so many rules that everyone brings you up thinking that that's the way things are. No matter what happens in this world, you can never deny what you feel inside. You can never... doubt yourself because those are true feelings and nobody can take that away from you. People can tell you you're wrong, but you know deep down inside what's right. You love what you love and that's just the way it is, and you have to go with that.

I believed love was all you need. I believed you should be here now. I believed drugs could make everyone a better person. I believed I could hitchhike to California with 35 cents and people would be glad to feed me. I believed Mao was cute. I believed private property was wrong. I believed my girlfriend was a witch. I believed my parents were Nazi space monsters. I believed the university was putting saltpeter in the cafeteria food. I believed stones had souls. I believed the NLF were the good guys in Vietnam. I believed Lyndon Johnson was plotting to murder all the Negroes. I believed Yoko Ono was an artist. I believed Bob Dylan was a musician. I believed I would live forever or until I was 21, whichever came first. I believed the world was coming to an end. I believed the Age of Aquarius was about to begin. I believed the I Ching said to cut classes and take over the Dean's office. I believed wearing my hair long would end poverty and injustice. I believed there was a great throbbing web of cosmic mucus and we were all part of it somehow. I managed to believe Gandhi and H. Rap Brown at the same time. With the exception of anything my mom and dad said, I believed everything.

My dad likes to tell people he was a professional musician, but he was a wedding singer. I think Zoe believed it all for a long time, this idea that she was special or chosen, that she was going on to fame and fortune. I just saw how stupid it all was.

Each parent should take to heart what that means: even the greatest musician of all time is more important as a parent to his children than he is as an artist to the world. It doesn’t matter how great our work is, how wealthy it makes us, or what it ends up meaning to billions of people—nothing will eclipse the impact we have on our kids.

This got me thinking that perhaps the granularity of attention we achieve outward also extends inward, so that as the perceptual details of our environment unfold in surprising ways, so too do our own intricacies and contradictions. My dad said that leaving the confined context of a job made him understand himself not in relation to that world, but just to the world, and forever after that, things that happened at work only seemed like one small part of something much larger. It reminds me of how John Muir described himself not as a naturalist but as a “poetico-trampo-geologist-botanist and ornithologist-naturalist etc. etc.,” or of how Pauline Oliveros described herself in 1974: Pauline Oliveros is a two legged human being, female, lesbian, musician, and composer among other things which contribute to her identity. She is herself and lives with her partner…along with assorted poultry, dogs, cats, rabbits and tropical hermit crabs.10 Of course, there’s an obvious critique of all of this, and that’s that it comes from a place of privilege. I can go to the Rose Garden, stare into trees, and sit on hills all the time because I have a teaching job that only requires me to be on campus two days a week, not to mention a whole set of other privileges.

I didn’t go to school. My dad homeschooled me. . . . so I learned a lot about Egypt and basketball stats and my dad’s favorite musicians. I read a lot, too — pretty much anything I could get my hands on, from dad’s history books to fantasy novels — because I spent a lot of time sitting around in hotels and airports and dig sites in foreign countries where I didn’t know anybody.

When I was a teenager I had posters of all of my favorite musicians up on my bedroom walls—David Bowie, Marc Bolan, Edgar Winter’s They Only Come Out at Night, and the first KISS album. My dad didn’t really know what to make of it. One time he came into my room while I was listening to music and looked at all the posters and said, “You’re a fag, aren’t you?” This was an actual one-sided conversation we had.

I didn’t understand about alcoholism yet, how booze and drugs fed the wounded animal in Walter, I just thought that’s how life was. Unpredictable and insane. I’d show up to school the day after one of his episodes feeling shell-shocked and spaced out. I don’t know how I manifested this stuff outwardly, but I never talked to anyone about it. I just wandered around in a daze, stuck in a severe hangover. I had no idea how to deal with it. I was very conscious of the things I loved about my family—the freedom of all of us walking around the house naked, Walter being a musician, the amazing jazz I heard, the well-stocked book and record shelves, the bohemian aspects of our life. But I’d lie in bed at night and wish that I had a boring, normal, dumb family. One with no creativity. I wished my dad worked in a factory, and my mom was a conservative housewife who wore ugly pantsuits. I wished they’d have petty arguments and watch TV; the way Archie Bunker and Edith behaved on the TV show All in the Family, or like the Battaglias back in Larchmont. I equated creativity with insanity.