Our firstborn son offered to record some of our music while we were on vacation together. He and his wife are far more experienced with such things than I ever was, and their willingness to capture a half dozen songs touched me deeply.
There were circumstances that made it tricky. A napping baby was one. Laughter from people downstairs was another. But probably the largest hurdle was that my voice has aged. Plus, and I can only call it comic relief, there was the matter of my guitar strap slipping, resulting in a broken E string. If I were one of those professional performers I would have had a back up set, or even another guitar, but alas I had to make do with
five.
There is no number of attempts that can guarantee a take that is free of a catch in my throat or a buzzing string. Which is why my preferred audiences are four years old and undiscerning. When you record a song, those faux pas are etched in stone.
Lukas and Amy were as gracious as it was possible to be. They heard the occasional wrong notes, and with kind faces asked if I wanted to try again or if I was happy with it. They never complained.
It is likely that these recordings will land on Spotify. I don't understand that process, but they do. Yet even if that part of the plan never quite happens, the
tenderness of their efforts to give some of our songs a chance to outlive us makes me weep.