Towards the end of third grade, my school allowed us to try three musical instruments. After sucking so badly at the saxophone that the teacher wrote down, “not recommended,” on my worksheet, I left feeling dejected because I’d never be like my grandfather, my musical hero.
I came home to my mom, who like every mother eager to motivate her child to learn something new said, “oh you should play a musical instrument! It’ll prevent you from getting Alzheimer’s when you’re older!”
I was 9 years old.
Preserving my memory 80 years in the future when I would be old, gray, and let’s face it, incontinent, was not exactly the motivator I was looking for.
I’ve always told this story, tongue in cheek, since I started playing music, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I realized the actual gravity that playing music has when you become an old alter cocker.
My grandpa, Joe, is now 93 years old. These last years have been pretty brutal for him. He watched my grandmother, his wife of 72 years, slowly lose her mental and physical capacities over the past decade and pass away in September of last year. My grandfather had just done an extended stay at the hospital before she passed and couldn’t even make it to her funeral because he was in such extreme pain.
He asked me to sell all his saxophones.
“I’m done, it’s over,” he rasped to me.
He couldn’t envision himself ever being able to play again.
I sold two, but I hesitated and humbly asked him to let me keep the tenor he used to play all the time. I couldn’t bring myself to sell that one, it felt like I was selling a piece of him. He also kept his soprano saxophone, which was the only sax he had the lung power to occasionally use before he was in the hospital.
Yesterday, my wife organized a surprise family visit to my grandfather’s new apartment at a senior living facility near us. After many months he’s finally out of rehab, but he has to get adjusted to new surroundings and routines, all while being confined to a wheelchair. As a lifelong curmudgeon whose curmudgeonocity has increased exponentially as he’s aged, this isn’t easy for him.
When we arrived yesterday, of course my grandpa was happy to see us. If he just got to see us and my one-year-old son walk around with his cane while dressed in a velvet vest, that would have been enough for him. But as a musician, I know that having that outlet to express yourself is keenly important to staying sane and healthy.
When I asked him if he wanted to play some songs with me, he immediately started on about how he can’t play anymore. “I can’t get the notes in the high register, the sound is terrible, my fingers can’t press down the keys all the way, etc.” On and on, he had excuses about why he couldn’t do it.
We all asked him to just give it a shot, if it was too much for him, he could stop.
So, he agreed.
We were out in the public lounge area on his floor of the building. We had to set up all his music equipment for him, even put the saxophone strap over his head. As a musician for over 80 years, he’s certainly not used to not being able to put the strap over his own head. I thought of how frustrating and humbling that must be after all these years.
After we were both set up, he blew into his horn. At first some of the notes were a bit stifled and some of them squeaked a little, but overall, the sound was solid. We started jamming on Sunny Side of the Street and as he got back into playing, you could see his whole demeanor change.
I sensed that he was suddenly lighter. A hint of a smile crept across his face, his posture was straighter, and his body was more energized. The neurons were firing down somewhat dusty pathways, but they were finding where they needed to go!
Everyone clapped, cheered him on, and told him how good he sounded. You could tell he was proud of himself. He had his old friend back and he realized music wasn’t a lost cause like he kept telling himself it was.
We kept playing jazz standards and with each passing song he became more confident and surer of himself. He was still Poppy Joe Cool, the sax player. Maybe the fingers were a little less nimble and the sound wasn’t exactly how he wanted it, but his essence was still there.
Other residents getting off the elevator stopped, listened, and cheered. They loved it. The whole scene of the great grandpa playing music with his grandson, while three great grandkids danced around with colorful streamers made everyone’s face light up.
As it turns out we came there to surprise him, but he’s the one who surprised us with his resilience. It was an amazing moment for all of us to witness the power and hope that music can bring to someone’s life.
In the end, he even asked about getting some new reeds, though he couldn’t remember the name of the company that made the reeds nor the company that he used to buy them from.
So, what I’m trying to say here is, sure music is good for your soul, sure it will make you feel and express things that have been burdening you in a way that you can’t express in any other manner. But at a certain point, when Metamucil and Depends become your most frequent grocery items, no matter how much music you play, you’re still going to forget some shit, mom.
