One of my first musical memories is of my father playing the piano, singing songs about potty training. (Don’t judge. It was comforting.) It wasn’t uncommon for my sister and I to fall asleep to the sound of keys being played, the melody wafting into our shared bedroom from the piano just outside our door. My mom played the flute. She, however, didn’t play potty training songs. I grew up with music. It was a part of my childhood.
In second grade, I got my first taste of instrument playing. The whole class was expected to learn the recorder. I remember there was an immense pressure to learn that silly little fife. Kids who played out of turn were sometimes put in time out, or suffered a steely glare from my music teacher. That pretty much cured my desire to play any wind instrument for the rest of my natural life.
In middle school, when the music of Avril Lavigne and Ashlee Simpson was more popular than the hip-shaking antics of Britney Spears and the rest of the pop posse, I started playing guitar. I was 12, still young enough to learn a new skill quickly, and just angsty enough to really enjoy it. I started writing songs in ratty composition notebooks with pitiful chord progressions and cliché lyrics. It was great.
During high school, music started to center more on worship. I started attending my church’s youth group, and singing quickly became synonymous with the sound of beautifully imperfect voices. The older musicians in the church who led the Sunday morning songs taught me music wasn’t all about sounding the best, but about having a sincere heart. There was something undeniably gorgeous about the chorus of off-key voices I heard during worship services. It was comforting, genuine.
Later on in college, music changed. It rearranged itself into different genres and tastes. Coming to St. Pete, I found there was an entire culture that revolved around the creating and performing of music. There were record stores and music festivals, local bands and live concerts. Here, people were passionate about what they listened to.
There is something beautiful about the myriad of musical memories I’ve accumulated over time. It’s not just an art form, it’s a moment in time. Chris Tomlin’s Hello Love album will always take me back to my youth missions conference in 2009, and whenever I hear The Lumineers, I remember fall 2012.
One day, hopefully, I will spread the joy of singing and sound to my children, and make musical memories with them. Even if it involves playing the “potty song” on piano.
Erin Murphy is a sophomore majoring in mass communications and the assistant arts and life editor. She can be reached at erinmurphy@mail.usf.edu or on Twitter @sassyerbear.
