When I saw Steely Dan and The Eagles last night, I kept getting the urge to call my father and tell him where I was. I wanted to share the live music with him through my phone. He adored both bands, as do I. Since my father no longer has a phone number, I texted and shared with my brother. It was the next best thing.
My father is the person I credit my early musical education to. Although he had zero musical ability himself (he could not have held a note for the life of him—it was even a stretch when he was whistling), he had a passionate love of music. He introduced me and my brother to the Beatles at an early age. He told us that The Rolling Stones were one of the best bands ever, too. He loved Led Zeppelin, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Wings, Bob Marley, and David Bowie. He got me into classical music at a young age. When a song he loved came on the radio (as they used to), he’d impulsively exclaim, “Oooo, I love this song!” with the enthusiasm of a young child. (This is something I do myself and obviously soaked it up from him.)
It was my father who introduced me to Steely Dan in more depth than what was being played on the radio. When he liked something—whether it was music, food, wine, a city, whatever—his enthusiasm about it would make you want to run out and experience it yourself.
Even though I can’t call my father on the phone anymore, I am certain that last night he was there at that concert, sitting right next to Steve and I, enjoying every single second of it along with us.
The Way I See It 