It was 20 years ago today that my father taught the band to play! Wait...make that 50 years ago. And it wasn't on this particular day. And he didn't actually teach band to play so much as he just started playing with them. I know. Confusing. But I do have a point, which is, basically, that my father has been playing music for a long, long time (slightly longer than Taco Bell and Wendy's have been around, if you want to get technical...which I always do!), and since that fact has a lot to do with the reason that we refer to Dill Records as "the place that music calls home", I thought I'd devote a little "post time" to sharing some of his fascinating history in and around the Nashville music world.
Now, don't get me wrong. Dad has played a lot of other places besides Nashville. And although it would be fair to say that he has played with some of Nashville's best, he's neither a name dropper nor a musician who limits himself to one type of stage. That is to say, my father has played his pedal steel just about everywhere in this country, and has no intention of skidding to a halt any time soon. It all comes down to what he told me the other night as we were watching some old school country music videos on CMT.
"I've always loved playing music," he told me. "Apart from God and my family, music is the thing I love the most in my entire life, and I'd rather play music than do anything else."
Wow, I thought. That sounds dangerously close to a declaration of...well...passion. Turns out it's more than that. Elaborating on that initial confession, my father went on to tell me that he had tried, at intervals, to be a "normal person: (i.e. someone who wouldn't rather play music than do anything else), but just didn't have it in him. Well, no wonder. I mean, he touches the strings on his pedal steel, and the thing cries like a silver-throated baby. He touches them again, and you would swear that angels were weeping behind the lyrics of the song. Sure, there are other pedal steel players out there, but my father has that magical little gift that makes it hard to to anything else but play--not to mention impossible for anyone else to do anything but listen.
Funny thing is, for the last 20 years, my father and I weren't even in constant communications. I won't get into the details, but there were times when I didn't know if I would ever see him again. And now, here I am, writing this post, working with him in the studio at Dill Records, getting ready to board the bus and hit the road for a series of bookings over the next few months. Is he different than I remember from 20 years ago? Of course. But he's also very much the same. He plucks those pedal steel strings and it's still a majestic moment in music. The passion, the love, the absolute sense of "yeah, this is who and what I am" still reverberates through every single chord. Some girls have fathers who help them with math, or teach them how to play chess, or who pay for ballet lessons. When I was young enough for all that to be happening, my father was on the road, or playing on the stage at the Grand Ol' Opry. But what I got from him, he didn't have to teach me. He gave me a passion for music. And...luckily for Dill Records....the talent to make that passion worthwhile. Thanks, Dad.
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