The Family Band

Every summer solstice, I get a visit from my parents. We’ve made a yearly pact to get together under the pretense of playing music on the streets of Manhattan, participants in a little known festival we call “Make Music in New York.” We’re not particularly strong instrumentalists. We’re often under rehearsed, overheated, and frankly terrified about playing in front of a city of judgemental strangers. I know not everyone is quick to criticize, but when one’s standing, guitar in hand, on the corner, the skyscrapers feel taller and passersby seem less friendly. It’s easy to feel small and vulnerable on stage, and yet, the simple act of facing one’s fears is what makes the experience so powerful. Our project has stress baked in: the hours it takes to practice, finding a venue, parallel parking in the city. At the end of our performance, I’m often left wondering whether all this trouble was worth the worry. This is especially the case when our music isn’t ringing effortlessly, when I’m not finding the notes on the fretboard or struggling to play the changes. It can be a real slog. I remember last year. My brow dripped under the scorching sun. My parents’ patience wore thin in the heat, wondering if the sweat and stakes of performing together were working to unravel the bond we’ve cultivated over the years.

I’m often left wondering whether all this trouble was worth the worry.

The truth is we always remember these moments fondly. Every time, even if—at the time—we were too on-edge to recognize it. Last year was particularly hot. We played under the Flatiron building on 23rd Street with the pressure of performing looming over us and our music competing with the sounds of traffic. Even so, a year later, I don't remember the stress as much as the joy, the forgiveness we’ve allotted ourselves for not playing perfectly. If nothing else, performing with my parents has taught me that the struggle is part of the journey. In the end, it bonds us with a sense of accomplishment. Of course I appreciate the laid-back visits I take to their home in North Carolina, where there is little to do but read and stroll, cook dinner, and put on a movie. Yet nothing beats the fear, stress, and accomplishment of pushing our boundaries and learning to love and play together. I would do it every year if I could. In fact, I’m sure we will.