I’m the only person I know who, as a child, was lulled to sleep by songs about drowned miners’ daughters and weary hobos. “Clementine” and Woody Guthrie’s “Hobo’s Lullaby,” respectively, were favorites from my father’s vocal repertoire. The 1880s and the Great Depression aren’t typical material for bedtime ditties, but I like the songs because they make me think of my dad.
I grew up north of the Mason-Dixon, but for many years my dad kept a broken banjo in our basement. Many nights he would sit on an old chair in our living room and strum Bob Dylan tunes on his acoustic guitar, a Martin from the nearby plant in Nazareth, Penn. My dad and I started to bicker a lot when I was about 11, and things occasionally got ugly. Nevertheless, we’ve shared musical interests even when we haven’t been in tune.
That’s not to say that we always agree on what we like. As a sassy pre-pubescent, my regular arguments with my dad coincided with my whining about his choice of music for long car rides. I liked folk but, like many people, viewed country music as always talking about dogs and American flags and asking questions such as, “Did I shave my legs for this?”
So my family listened and still listen to Guthrie, Dylan, Lucinda Williams, Suzanne Vega, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Joni Mitchell, John Hiatt, etc. My dad introduced me to Buena Vista Social Club, the Grammy-winning Cuban ensemble, and the Old 97s, whose front man is the very pretty Rhett Miller. While my musical tastes continue to broaden, when it comes down to it, I like folk.
About two weeks ago, my dad celebrated a 50-something birthday. He had, before then, seen a few of his favorite acts live, but one in particular-John Hiatt-was missing. The singer/songwriter is a few years younger than my dad and has a Southern sensibility of rock ‘n’ roll that appeals to my Yankee pa.
I’m often at a loss for what to give my dad, but this time I knew. I offered to bring him to Hiatt’s September 4 show at the 9:30 Club. Some of my friends were incredulous that my dad would want to go there, but he excitedly agreed. He boarded the Chinatown bus by himself, leaving the train and his car behind in Philly.
The proposal of a concert turned into a two-day event, the longest time he and I have ever hung out without my mom or brother. I say hanging out, because that’s really what we did-in addition to going to a show together, we got free fourth row tickets to a Nationals game, we grabbed dinner, we sat around in his hotel room and watched The Simpsons.
The best part of the show, for me, was seeing how happy my dad was. I had not heard Hiatt’s 2005 release, Master of Disaster, but I remembered a lot of hits like “Cry Love” from his 1995 album Walk On. His hairline has receded in those ten years, but he made up for the loss with the addition of some very bright white leather loafers.
Early in the evening, my dad offered me a drink. At first I hesitated, but when he asked again, I had a Woodchuck cider. Right then, I realized that, somehow, we were overcoming the tension of my teenage years. He was recognizing that I have been growing up, and, with the distance created by college, we have come to understand each other better.
The very last song of the evening was Hiatt and Colvin singing Woody Guthrie’s “This Land is Your Land.” That night, the folk classic spoke to the need of unity in face of catastrophic Hurricane Katrina and could be applied to relationships such as mine with my father. That night, thanks to some music, my dad and I were doing pretty well.
