Daddy: "Whaaa!" (waking with a start)
Isobel: "You were dreaming about me."
Daddy: What!?! What are you talking about?"
Isobel: "You were dreaming about me, while you were sleeping. I can tell."
Daddy: "Oh yeah? What was I dreaming about you?"
Isobel: "You were dreaming that I am one eyed and I was wearing a pink dress. Then I showed you a picture."
Daddy: "Oh yeah? What picture did you show me?"
Isobel: "This one (holding up picture) This is my rocket. This is HIS one eye and these are his gums. Which are bleeding."
They say that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and this week has shown that in our case, it seems to be true. Isobel has re-invented herself as a songwriter...a bonafide tune smith in the making. Music and lyrics, the total package and why not? She has always jumped in with both feet, eyes firmly shut. And the real money is in the songwriting royalties anyway...
I remember not that long ago, my father telling me that I was constantly making up dumb assed songs as a kid.
"You were always making up dumb assed songs when you were a kid." he said. (See?)
I do remember making up songs...We were not a particularly musical family, at least not our branch of it. There were many musicians on both sides of the clan but no one in my family unit played anything. BUT despite that,we were still a musical family. Music was a huge part of our household. There always seemed to be a radio playing somewhere and both my parents would take refuge in their own favourite music as their marriage slowly crumbled around them. (As a result, I know the lyrics to nearly Every pre-1980 John Denver and Barbara Streisand album...go figure)
At any rate, there are two songs from my youth that stick with me...not the words but the message, the emotion that went with them. I got a free kitten at the stock yards-the result of a field trip. I believe every kid came home with some form of livestock they did not arrive with. We already had a cat and my Mother told me as soon as she saw the kitten that I could keep the cat if our family cat liked it. I put the two of them in a room together and by supper time I was carrying my new kitten to the Scwartzentruber's farm down the road...never to lay eyes on it again. That night I sang a quiet lament on the sorrows of a boy losing the greatest cat he had ever known. (for 12 hours) I sang it into the night until my older brother punched me in the arm hard enough to make me forget the cat.(funny for all the lamenting I was doing, I never did name the damned thing)
The second song I can remember was song of war, a song of summoning up the courage of my ancestors. song that says we are so much tougher and stronger than you and we're going to kick you in the balls (spiritually speaking of course) and send you packing. I sang it to/with my best friend as we lay on our stomachs over looking a small bluff to the beach down below. We sang it as my brother and his friend walked beneath us. We sang it as I chucked a large rock at my brother and beaned him in the head with it...and then we ran like hell.
But I am wandering...Izzy announced to me that she was writing songs now.
"Daddy," she said. "I am writing songs now you know."
"Really?" I asked. "I have written a song or two."
"But I write real songs." she said. "Songs for my mouth to sing. Not songs for a chanter or bagpipes."
"I used to write songs like that and sing them and play bass." I said.
"Really?" she asked in a tone that sounded as though she might burst out in complete disbelieving laughter.
"Really." I said.
"Well, I am writing songs with words and music. I am putting them all together with my friend Candace."
"When It's finished, you might let me here a little. OK?" I asked her.
"OK..." she sighed heavily. Creating is such a burden...I know.
Off she went to her toy piano and plinked on the keys for a good amount of time. I have to say, the pattern was nearly the same every time she played it. There were subtle differences and changes to each version she played but the main part was now burnt permanently into my brain and it was virtually unchanged. For all intents and purposes, she was writing music. What she was doing was no different than what I had done and still do any time I wrote a song. The melody may have been a complete mystery to anyone but her...but that's all semantics's.
Once she had written a tune she was satisfied with, she went to the kitchen table to compose the appropriate lyrics. I tried not to watch, she tends to get embarrassed when you watch her creating and it will put her off of it. I had to turn away from her to disguise the broad grin that was spreading across my face as she sang and corrected and re-sang lyrics. She was writing them out on a piece of paper, so she could give them to Candace How else would she sing HER part? Father's are silly sometimes I have been informed.
She bolted out of the chair and dashed toward the phone.
"It's perfect!" she yelled with glee. "Can I phone Candace? She needs to hear this and find out what her part is before tomorrow."
"Sure." I said.
Who am I to stand in the way of art?
Candace wasn't nearly as thrilled at the prospect of being part of Hitsville Ontario and had decided to take a nap after school instead. Izzy was crestfallen.
"Can I hear it, Pick? You could sing it to me."
"Really?" she asked. The surprise in her voice told me she was not expecting me to ask to hear her song.
"Yep, go on and sing it for me." I said.
She began and continued to sing in a strong clear voice and looked at me most of the time she was singing. Normally, this sort of performance would be a hushed whisper and staring at her shoes. (Like Juliana Hatfield) When it was over, she put down her lyric sheet (that she didn't really have anything written on I later discovered) and took a series
of long, low bows."That was awesome!" I said and gave her a big round of applause. "You are on your way to being a great songwriter!" I didn't have the heart to tell her that her song was already being sung by a cute English woman called Adele. Who am I to stand in the way of art?
She took another bow and disappeared. I am assuming she went off to her dressing room to prepare for the 5:45 show. (when Mummy gets home)
She was colouring and I asked her why she wasn't writing any songs today.
"I am waiting for a call back from Candace. She is sick."
"She's sick?" I asked.
"She went home from school today, she threw up in class." Isobel said.
"She threw up in class?" I asked. "Oh no, that's not good."
"Yeah bitch, bitch, whatever." Isobel said.
That's the problem with being a songwriter, everyone who is good enough to sing your songs is always a prima donna.
I was sitting at the computer, wearing headphones when I heard what I thought was the distant rumble of thunder. I looked over to see Isobel, my progeny, the product of my genetic lineage bent over looking out the window. Nearly crippled with laughter.
"What's the deal?" I asked.
She proceeded to show me...She pressed her forehead against the wi
ndow and slid it downward...her face, not the window. Her skin naturally presented a measure of resistance and friction against the glass which in turn, resulted in her head thudding off the window. The lower the position of her head, the slower it thudded and the lower the pitch of the thud. She did it repeatedly and howled with laughter every time she did it."Doesn't that hurt?" I asked half out of concern for my child's well being and half out of befuddled amusement.
"It's just my head," she said. "It's nothing."
My Child...not a doubt in my mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment