I don’t come from a musical family.
Sure, they liked music. My mother kept a stack of 45’s, including old hits like “Tom Dooley” and “Davey Crockett.” We had a hi-fi with LPs that included the soundtrack to “Black Beauty” and a wonderful, dark recording of “Peter and the Wolf.”
There was a Chickering spinet in the living room beside the fire place. When we each turned five, my brother and I and all the McGovern cousins were given piano lessons with the ancient and amazing Miss Ruth Olive Roberts. My parents were graceful dancers, though I only saw them dance together once.
So, music had a place in our family as it does in most families.
But did they sit around in the kitchen of an evening, singing and swapping tunes and picking on the banjo? Most certainly they did not.
Of course, that is what most singers and musicians mean when they write in their bios: “X comes from a musical family.”
What does it imply to include this (or not) in the portrait of our musical selves? I think it implies two things, intertwined and familial:
I belong – and – I am legitimate.
It means: My style, my technique, my songs, my whole musical self – all of this is rooted, endorsed, included, part of something larger than myself. I’m not alone in this; other people will vouch for me. One layer under all of this is a more primal message: it is OK for me to be here.
If this is NOT you, and it is certainly not me, that message can stir up a sense of exclusion. I have conjured up all sorts of romantic pictures of literally harmonious families, singing sweet harmonies, encouraging and valuing one another, passing golden evenings in the warm kitchen. I can practically taste the tea and feel an elder’s arm about my shoulders, urging me to sing.
In my imagination, these families don’t fight. There aren’t vast windy spaces and silences at mealtimes. No one does anything without understanding and support. Everyone is proud of you and happy for you as you come into your music.
For those of us who grew into our musical lives without that experience (real or imagined), we can also feel unsettled. Without realizing it, we can think, “If a musical lineage is the ticket to inclusion, then where does that leave me?”
That leaves you, my friend, in the powerful position of being a passionate chooser and a brave decider. And honestly, if you had this blessed experience of music and family, it is still you, too. Think of all the kids shoved forwards to sing their party piece by adoring elders only to ditch the whole fraught performance thing as soon as they could drive away to pursue their MBA. Those who become musicians do so in a world that often demands proof of legitimacy, and that sees the arts as superfluous. Seen in that light, it becomes clear that we are all passionate choosers and brave deciders.
On the other side of the myth of inclusion and legitimacy, we discover that what matters most deeply to us we chose for ourselves.
Poetry, books, writing, music, songs, stories, scholarship, and imagination are at the heart of my life, but there is no direct lineage or precedent for any of these in my family. I don’t come from a musical family, at least not in the way that those bios imply. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t inherit anything of value to my musical and creative life. Far from it!
From my father, fisherman, I got the sea – an endless storehouse of metaphor, inspiration, and mystery that has sourced my creative life from the very beginning.
From my mother, nurse, I got caring about people. She has spent her life healing and helping, though she is far too modest to put it this way.
I also got books – books that are all the more precious to me when I think of how little money there was and how few indulgences my parents enjoyed for themselves. I got a writing desk and a lamp. I got my grandmother’s old typewriter.
From those windy spaces, I got determination and ingenuity. I got hunger and the pleasure of a secret life as I wrote, played, composed, and sang almost entirely without commentary.
I got life on a tidal river, the lump-in-your-throat departure of the geese and their high-hearted and joyful return. I got the most spectacular sunsets I have ever witnessed.
I also got the impetus to look outwards, to find teachers and company in the creative life.
And that means that I got a family: I got YOU, dear reader, and all the singers, teachers, compatriots, collaborators, and inspirers of the past, present, and future.
Turns out, I do come from a musical family.
Turns out, we all do.
I wrote this essay a few years ago and posted it on a site that no longer exists, so I wanted to share it here again because it is still true and important to me. I would be so grateful to hear from you: What did YOU receive from your upbringing that supports you in your artistry and JOY?
PS – I don’t know the people in the “musical family” image I’ve used (I just googled “musical family” and spotted them right away), but I love them anyway. How about a whole family playing brass instruments? FUN!
