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 | | | | Jan31 Written by:Bob Lichty
Monday, January 31, 2000 6:00 PM "What a waste" and "what a shame" are two phrases I've heard a lot lately.
My father, John Lichty, after 20 clean and sober years, decided to fall off the wagon a few years back. Despite the best efforts of a family who has, quite frankly, seen enough alcohol related problems to fill an entire season of "The Young and the Restless", he has been unrelenting in his pursuit of distilled spirits. A few brief stays in detox did little to quench his thirst and a month ago he was finally arrested while driving under the influence of alcohol. This was his second time and he had no insurance and an expired license. The State of Michigan is not very tolerant toward these things (thankfully), so he is currently spending his days in a correctional facility located in the middle of the state.
Okay, so what does any of this have to do with audio? Well, to me, almost everything.
I have very few memories of the days when my parents were together and my dad was drinking. They divorced when I was just five, and the reality of being a single dad (again) sobered dad up and he was clean for all of my formative years. I would see him every other weekend, either for the whole weekend or just for Sunday. I learned a great deal in that time: Pall Mall cigarettes will make anybody puke, Playboy gave me more thrills than Sports Illustrated, the perfect way to grill a sirloin, the appreciation for golf, and a love for great music.
My dad was a jazzer and an audiofile. I suppose in Seinfeld vernacular he would be considered a "hipster doofus." But he had an amazing stereo system, an incredible tube beast out of the sixties by Bozak, huge speakers, glowing tubes, and a record collection to die for (most of it obscure enough to still be lacking in CD format). His collection ran the gamut from the big bands he adores (Count Basie, Stan Kenton, Glen Miller), to obscure early experiments in "Bold Stereophonic Recordings" with the most unnatural panning I've ever heard, to the comedy of Spike Jones, to the wonderful solo works of Bill Evans and Stan Getz (the latter being part of the reason I first picked up a saxophone).
After nearly exhausting his seemingly unending patience teaching me golf we would wind up back at his place, grill a couple steaks, and listen. It really didn't matter what we were listening to, we would just listen, and the music would move him, so therefore it would move me too. Seeing my dad's reaction to these records introduced me to the emotion in making records. It introduced me to the fact that behind all the notes and technique, if it doesn't speak to the heart, it doesn't mean jack.
I suppose my early childhood failure at piano lessons had something to do with the rigid discipline. I wanted to open up and play, not get into rote routines of scales and the page in front of me. However, over several weekends at dad's he would talk about being the best at whatever you did, that the only thing that could disappoint him was if I didn't put in my absolute best. So when, in the fourth grade, they gave us the chance to play an instrument, I jumped at the saxophone. I took to it pretty quickly and according to some became a pretty good player. In learning what discipline is really about, I put all I had into music. I relearned piano, picked up guitar, taught myself bass, learned to function behind a drum kit (my dad's instrument) and had a girlfriend who taught me flute. (Note to all guys, if you ever the opportunity to date a flutist, take it.)
It doesn't take a psychologist to realize this quest for "overachievement" was really just my way of trying to make my dad proud of me. He was remarkably supportive, suffering through grade school and middle school concerts, seeing the improvements in high school, and finally really enjoying himself at my college concerts. He even came to a club to see my college rock band play. A difficult quest for a man who was still sober, having to slurp down watered down iced tea all night while listening to Steve Miller and REM covers until the wee hours of the morning. But he was there, and he was honest. A lot of "backstage parents" will puff you up but dad didn't pull punches. He would let me know when I didn't seem my best, and he was always right. If a final, or a girlfriend distracted me, he knew it.
Dad has sat in some of my sessions, and as I'm working the clients to get their all I can't help but think he must be smiling, knowing that is his influence. He can't feel too bad scanning my CD collection either. Though I'm sure he may turn a frown at the Guns ‘N Roses CDs and the Motley Crue selections, he must be smiling at the large classical and jazz pieces I have collected over the years.
So people will say "what a waste," but I'm not so sure. After all, dad said do what you do the best you can do it. More than any lesson I learned on those weekends, more than Pall Malls will make you green, more than the first time you see a girl with no top on after seven years of Playboy you'll be disappointed, more than the perfect steak or a halfway respectable handicap, the one that stuck with me is be your best. Somewhere, after twenty years of sobriety, my dad decided he was best at being a drunk. Trust me, I know this not a good thing, but it is his thing.
So, what does it have to do with audio? Well, as I sit on a plane listening to Miles Davis' "Kind Of Blue" and head off to do the best I can do, I'd like to think that dad is proud of me. And that is the whole reason I'm doing any of this at all. So to me, it has everything to do with everything.
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