Precious Memories

     As the magnificent, authentic voice of Aretha Franklin rang out across the Virgina Theatre, my mind found itself drifting to thoughts of my father. The screening of Aretha's long lost 1972 concert recorded at a Baptist church in Los Angeles sounded excellent, though something about it reminded me of a vinyl record. Despite its crisp, remastered production, there were elements of the listening experience that sounded real, down to earth, and warm. Perhaps it was the visual cues to go along with the sound? Directed by a then less-experienced Sydney Pollack and his crew, the picture would sometimes zoom in and out, coming into and out of focus at a frenzied pace. We saw some banter and  discussions of the musicians between songs. And then the lovely gospel music, brought to life by Ms. Franklin and the choir and musicians sharing the stage, was, well, divine.

Going back many years, roughly a decade after Aretha Franklin's Amazing Grace recording was made, but far removed from today, my father would play his gospel records on our family turntable. In our small house on Draper St., there was no escaping it. The record player was situated in the wood-paneled living room and, when the mood took Lewis to listen to his favorite religious songs, then mom and I would be a captive audience. We didn't have a massive vinyl collection, but sometimes dad would carefully study the records, deliberating thoughtfully over which one to play. Other times, he'd quickly choose one and set it up on the platter.

We didn't have a CD player at the time (I wouldn't get my first CD until 1994, and this was the mid-1980s we're talking about). I had no better sound to compare things to, other than cassettes. Dad's gospel records sounded rich, warm, with the occasional hiss or pop that was all too common for the medium. I was, sorry to say, fairly disinterested in these listening sessions. I heard the music, but wasn't moved by it. While it's true my father and I had our differences, and weren't what one would describe as close, I often look back at certain occasions growing up and think that they were missed opportunities. Children can sometimes be cruel with their honesty. No doubt I made it abundantly clear that the songs my father so enjoyed bored me to no end. How did it make him feel? Did it bother him?

A few years later, we'd moved to a bigger house, one with a partially-finished basement. The record player was moved to the lower level, and Lewis seemed to spend less time with his music. I, on the other hand, was in the basement quite a bit, mostly watching TV. It served as sanctuary from a world of bullies and childhood stress. And then, a curious thing happened -- I began to pull out dad's vinyl  collection and play it on the turntable. There they were, albums by Mahalia Jackson, Clara Ward (both of whom are name-checked in the Amazing Grace movie), and Aretha Franklin, among others. Partly out of curiosity for a novelty medium that was no longer fashionable, and partly because the wheels in my head were desperately wondering what made my father tick, I would remove a record from its sleeve, put the needle on it, and let it play. And then another, and another.

I can't honestly say that, all those years ago, listening to those gospel records moved me very much, but hearing them made me feel closer to my dad, if that makes any sense? It was perhaps the first time I learned that you do not have to always understand a person in order to love them. Those listening sessions drew more sharply into focus as I watched Aretha Franklin's concert movie at the Virginia Theatre. Those crisp, yet hazy memories appeared in my mind -- the look on Lewis' face as the strong vocals of the gospel music echoed throughout the house, then me, a few years later, sitting alone in a basement, playing those same records in an attempt to discern something -- anything -- about a man I wanted to know better.

The opening night film of this year's Ebertfest, Amazing Grace was well-received by the audience, including yours truly. As it all worked so melodiously together -- Aretha's stellar voice, the choir, organ, and piano -- I thought of those occasions, now decades old, of dad playing his gospel records for mom and I. They are bittersweet memories. I didn't appreciate it then, his attempt to share a bit of himself with us, but I do today. Perhaps, if everything sung about in those gospel songs -- God, Jesus, and the glory of everlasting life -- is true, then maybe he is aware of my appreciation now.