I love music. I’ve been around it my whole life. It wasn’t a family thing, it was a “me” thing. It started with the piano. We had one, though no one played before I started. My mom wanted to but didn’t. She’d tried as a child, but her mother criticized the desire out of her.

My grandmother could be harsh.

I started piano lessons at age five. Mr. Neufeld was my first teacher and I stayed with him until age fifteen, when I quit for a year, but only a year. The irony of begging my parents to send me back when I’d fought against practicing for years wasn’t lost on me.

My dad took me to those first, Saturday morning lessons – nine-thirty a.m. if memory serves. I’d try to play the things I hadn’t practiced enough, and Mr. Neufeld would correct, instruct, write notes, and set the plan for the following week.

In my memories, he sighs. I feel his pain.

I wanted to be great at the piano. I wanted to sit at the piano and make music. Practice, however, was something else. I’ve never been a fan, no matter the endeavour. My brain takes my lack of instant expertise personally and uses it as an opportunity to berate. Still, I carried on. There’s just something about the piano.

I interspersed periods of passionate practice with periods of half-assery that I’m sure had my teacher regretting his life choices. I was more good than bad, however, for all my memory wants to portray me as otherwise, especially after I heard Rowlf the Dog play “The Moonlight Sonata” on “The Muppet Show” on the weekend. Nothing would do but for my parents to buy me a copy. I’ve worked at it on and off since I was eight. It’s still not great. Arthritis is wrecking it now.

I didn’t stop with the piano. I picked up the flute in grade six, partly because my mother’s grandfather played, and partly because of sexism. When I was in grade six, there were very clear girl and boy instruments, and few students strayed from expectations. I remember being shocked in grade nine by a girl who played the trumpet. I hadn’t realized brass was allowed. I grabbed a trombone and slid into jazz band.

I started singing for other people in grade six as well. At first, it was school plays and choirs, but once I hit high school and the music program there, I added voice lessons. Ego compels me to add that I was part of a national, gold-medal-winning music program for two years running. I sang jazz at Expo ’86. I spent two months with a choir touring Europe after graduation. I even considered studying music at university, but it’s a time-consuming faculty and my eating disorder had other plans.

And yet, despite all of that, I’ve never had a favourite album or artist. No artist or album has made me crazy, though my friends were infected by Duran Duran back in the day. I just don’t stan things that way. It’s easier for me to bring to mind the artists and music I hate. My dislike isn’t genre-dependent: pop is my preference, but I also like country and rock and roll. World music. African music. Bach. This is the joy of the music streaming service: I can make my own playlist with a little bit of everything. It keeps Spotify confused in the “for you” department.

What I dislike mostly relates to personality. I can’t like what you put out in the world if you do it while being a horrible person.

My son grew up in a house full of music, and not just me practicing. I have music playing all the time. Ditto in the car. Music lessons were always going to be in his future.

He had an affinity for drums. He’s very good at them. Drums are tricky. You have to learn to do different things with almost all the appendages. With piano, it’s two hands and an occasional pedal. With drumming, every hand and foot acts alone. I didn’t give Phil Collins enough props back in the day. He sang while doing it.

Again like his Mom, my son started lessons at age five. And like Mom again, he joined the school band when chance rolled around in grade six. Trumpet for him, and the puffy lips of September as the embouchure got reacclimated again always made me laugh.

He hasn’t played trumpet much since graduation. It’s not a huge solo instrument. It’s alright. He plays everything else. I exaggerate, but not much. We don’t have a harp.

He taught himself to play the ukulele first. Bought himself an orange one with money from his saved allowance. He taught himself to play the guitar next, acoustic first, and then electric.

One wonderful thing about music is how many people try it on only to quit. You can find a plethora of instruments for sale online, especially at the end of the school year. It’s a buyer’s market. It’s where I got him the bass he learned next. I had an electronic keyboard, so I didn’t have to buy one of those. He practiced on that before trying the piano in the living room. A piano can be an intimidating thing. No headphones.

He’s good at the keyboard, better than me in some ways. He’s not afraid of doing it wrong, and so he’s freer. He improvises and plays around. I was always too anxious to try playing things freestyle. Anxiety is a fan of the one, true way, even as the logical side of my brain rejects it.

He taught himself how to self-publish his music. In the electronic age, that’s possible. No one has to punch vinyl in their garage to share. He started by looping tracks and built his knowledge base from there. He learned how to edit, tweak, and mix. He learned how to lay down multiple tracks. He’s a band of one, like Panic! at the Disco. My son plays all the roles.

Even lyricist.

If I was magic, I’d make everyone listen. He seems to have inherited my self-promotion genes. They’re mostly dormant.

I don’t have a favourite album. That’s not how I roll with music. I do have a favourite artist – my son. He’s produced seven records so far and I’ve adored each one.

(The opening image is not from my house, but that is just like my piano. Legnica’s have a pretty tone.)

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