Let it Be
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It's easy to remember things differently when you look back on them. It's easy to romanticise something, or to apply a negative emotion to it when hindsight or regret has its way. Bad things can be overlooked in favour of some fleeting happy memory. Wonderful things can be turned sour, despite meaning the world at the time. And sometimes later events can elevate something mundane to levels it never really achieved in the moment. I know I'm guilty of that. Perhaps it's the storyteller in me, looking to apply some extra meaning to something anybody else might consider trivial. Perhaps it's the part of me that longs for connection that desperately seeks to be reminded how real something was in its absence. I don't doubt that may be the case here, as it is in so many other things, but I'm sure there's something special to treasure in this case too, and even if it's only for me, that's enough.
It was the 29th of May 2011. I'm good with dates. Ones that mean a lot stay with me, and whether I mean to or not, I remember them each year. This one was important for several reasons. It was a day I reunited with not one but two bands I hadn't played with for a long time. It was a day I saw a dear friend I hadn't seen for too long. And it was a day where so many of my friends and family did me the honour of coming to a party to mark my forthcoming birthday. I'd hired a venue. I'd planned the entertainment. I'd invited as many as I thought the room could hold. My mum had prepared the food. The aforementioned friend had decorated a cake. And, after weeks of planning, I was finally ready to make it happen.
To say it was without its hitches would be a lie. Some people couldn't make it. I forgot the lyrics to one or two of the songs I performed. I even opened with a song that, it turned out, was a little too high for me to start with. But for the most part, the evening went well. I was thrilled and humbled to see everyone who came and, when I wasn't performing, I tried to make time to spend with each and every one of them. Then, to finish, I sat down at the piano, and played a mostly unrehearsed version of the Beatles song, Let it Be.
It was unrehearsed because my mum's husband and his brother were accompanying me on guitars and backing vocals, and I hadn't had chance to play it with them before the night. Even so, it went okay. I'm not very good on piano even now, and was a lot worse then, but I knew enough of the song to fumble my way through it, and the guitarists managed to cover the worst mistakes. It almost certainly wasn't the best song of the night, but a few years later, I realised it was probably the most important.
The Beatles were my dad's favourite band. He could talk about them for hours, given the chance, and knew most of their songs off by heart. He'd been a fan since he was a child, and took great pleasure in introducing me to them as soon as I was old enough. He practically raised me on their music. I had cassette copies of their albums that he'd made for me so I could listen to them ad nauseum without scratching his precious vinyl originals. I could recite their lyrics before I really knew how to read or write. In summer, I'd sit on my swing in the back garden and bellow out their hits at the top of my lungs. For most of my childhood, his favourite band was mine too.
At that party, dad was sat right in front of me. I know he was proud of me. He even told my mum that on the night. But I wonder if that was what made him sit there, so close to 'the band'. I know he was keen to video some of it. I wonder now whether I have a copy of the video he took. I'm not sure I do. I just know that, when I sat at the piano, he was the closest person in the audience to me, and he looked right at me and grinned when he realised what I was going to play. He didn't know in advance, but he recognised it within the first bar and seemed chuffed to bits.
I didn't do it specifically for him. I wanted to play a song on piano, and that seemed like the easiest choice at the time, given my limited ability. But I knew he'd like it. Looking back now, I'm glad I made that choice. It gave me a solid memory to cherish that I wouldn't otherwise have had. A few years later, my dad died very suddenly and without any warning. Memories like that are all I have left.
Like most people, I have many regrets. I've done things I'm not proud of, and not done others I should have. I've lost people I miss so much that, when I think about it, my eyes fill with tears and the pain of their absence manifests as a physical ache that leaves me bent double in agony. But there are moments in my life that, in spite of any associated sorrow, I'm so proud to have been a part of for the simple reason that—just for a little while—they made someone I love smile. Whatever hindsight does to those moments in future, it's the smiles that let me know they were worth it. Regardless of how anyone else perceives them, they were real and special to me and always will be. If I've ever done something because I just wanted to make you smile, I want you to know two things: firstly, I'm not sorry for doing so; and secondly, in case I don't get chance to tell you again in person, if you're not here now, I miss you.
I have many incredible memories—some arguably more powerful—but playing Let it Be to my dad at my thirtieth birthday party, with so many of my friends and family there to see it, will always be special.
