Last night, I took my parents out for dinner and a show. I had promised them a night at the ballpark, but as the fortunes of our hometown nine continue to decline, the enthusiasm for an evening at Miller Park waned in direct proportion with the steadily increasing number of Brewers' losses in August.
After a delightful dinner at Sobleman’s (Milwaukee’s best burger, indeed), we headed over to the magnificent Pabst Theater – hands down, the finest entertainment venue in town – to bear witness to the greatness of Robert Cray and his band.
As we kibitzed on the corner of Water and Wells (while waiting for my cousin Tony, his girlfriend Kate, my pal Chris, his mother, and the legendary Michael D), I inquired where my interest in music came from. After all, as he admitted, my dad wasn’t a huge fan back when the music was political, trippy and incredible (he has since come around).
My focused turned to my mom. As mothers are wont to do, she’s done a great deal for me as I’ve grown up (and out), but one of the things I appreciate most is her steadying influence of the arts. To this day, I consider myself fairly cultural and mildly educated in the finer things of life.
Reflecting on my younger days, I recall many hours spent at the library reading books, trips to Chicago to look at the masterpieces of Monet and Renoir, movies on rainy Summer afternoons, and music – amazing music!
Film and music, two of the greatest things in life!
There are many musical memories in my life, many of which involve my mom. I recall listening to Grover Washington Jr.’s “Winelight” album over and over. She piqued my curiousity with the Doors the first time I heard “Light My Fire”. My first concert was Neil Diamond, in the pouring rain (we had grass seats), about 1986 at the Marcus Ampitheater. For my 16th birthday, she surprised me with tickets to see Eric Clapton and allowed me to go by myself (as long as I went with Dan Brunner).
One of my first memories is walking back from the South Shore Water Frolics in the late 70s or early 80s. We were 
with my uncle George and auntie Kay and some other people. I heard a song called “Breezin’” and was mesmerized. I’m pretty sure I told my mom I liked it (quite a bit for a 3 or 4-year-old brain to wrap itself around).
with my uncle George and auntie Kay and some other people. I heard a song called “Breezin’” and was mesmerized. I’m pretty sure I told my mom I liked it (quite a bit for a 3 or 4-year-old brain to wrap itself around).Tonight I get to see the author and musician of “Breezin’”, George Benson. It’s a strange excitement, and it can’t help but make me think of my mom.
Thanks, mom, for the extraordinary gift you’ve shown me. The answer to last night’s question was right in front of me (and during the show, 2 seats over).
2 comments:
Mom, the sometimes unsung hero of us all. I think that's probably why you can't say "nothin bad about my mama."
It's funny that your Mom didn't instill any sense of taste in you while introducing you to culture. Zing!!!!
Upon further review - some of your appreciation for music may have come from your grandfather - B.Jerry Gradisnik. It was reported that he had a brilliant voice, especially after a few drinks. He once told me that he sang on the Armed Forces Radio during WWII when stationed on Hawaii (before/after deployment to Kwajalein and Okinawa campaigns).
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