The Songaminute Man

by Simon McDermott

  ‘What’s the matter, Eddie?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ he said. ‘I know I’m upsetting people but I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m making people sad.’

  Mum went to hug him.

  ‘And I know this is wrong and doesn’t make sense but your mum came in here and told me not to worry and that it was just a phase I was going through, and everything would be OK… And I know that’s not right because she’s dead,’ Dad sobbed. ‘And then after that my mum came in. And she said the same thing and that I shouldn’t worry as people would look after me. And I know it’s not right because they’re both dead.’

  As Mum told me this down the phone I was crying, too. It was heartbreaking. My poor Dad. This raging monster that had been with us for the past few years was as frightened as anyone. We couldn’t let him walk down this path alone.

  For the next five or six months, things were very much the same. Mum and Dad would go to St Stephen’s most Saturdays so Dad could sing and I’d go up every couple of weeks or so. He would still have his rages and often we would be walking on eggshells, but there was more sadness in Dad. One time Mum was washing up in the kitchen and Dad couldn’t find her; later, she found him upstairs in their bedroom crying. He thought she’d walked out and left him and he was all alone.

  In early 2016, Mum and Dad came to visit me in London. As soon as Mum arrived I could see on her face that she was exhausted and needed a break. Dad had a face on him and I was dreading what the weekend would bring.

  ‘Come on, Dad, let’s go for a walk.’

  Initially he was a bit wary about leaving the flat without Mum, but I eventually managed to persuade him to come with me and give her some peace. It was a Thursday evening and there were loads of office workers around having after-work drinks. Dad was chatting away about everything and nothing. Most of the time I switched off as a lot of the things he said were either made up or confused monologues. It was a mild spring evening and I took him for a walk through Borough, down the High Street, and along the South Bank.

  I was desperately trying to find a pub that wasn’t too packed or full of loud drunken men in suits. I just knew that they wouldn’t understand Dad’s condition and it would turn into a pantomime.

  Eventually we came to The Union Jack, a pub a few streets back from the Tate Modern. I found us a seat and went to the bar to order some drinks. The barman had long black hair. As I was waiting Dad suddenly appeared next to me.

  ‘You’ve got beautiful hair,’ Dad said to the barman.

  The barman looked confused. ‘Sorry mate?’

  ‘Dad!’ I tried to shut Dad up before he said anything else.

  ‘What’s a matter with you? She’s beautiful!’ Dad exclaimed to me.

  The barman looked furious. It looked like my Dad was flirting with him, which essentially he was. It was bonkers.

  I tried to distract Dad away from the bar but he turned back to the barman laughing and pointing at me: ‘Look at him. He’s scared of talking to beautiful women like you!’

  The barman stood open mouthed. I was burning with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. He thinks you’re a woman’ I said, making things ten times worse. As we walked to our table the rest of the bar was in hysterics.

  ‘So, where you from?’ he said, sitting down.

  ‘Blackburn.’

  ‘No – but where do you live?’

  ‘I live in London, Dad – where we are now,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. My son lives in London. Yeah, he lives near London Bridge. Do you know him?’

  Although part of me knew Dad would forget who I was most of the time, he’d never spoken to me directly like this as though I was a stranger. This was new territory and I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Do you know him?’ he asked again. ‘He’s called Simon.’

  ‘Urm… urm, no. I may do,’ I stuttered, not knowing what to say.

  ‘He’s from Blackburn as well. Where do you work?’

  ‘Barnardo’s.’

  ‘You’re kidding me! You work at Dr Barnardo’s? Just wait until I tell Linda. Our Sime lives in London AND works at Barnardo’s!’

  I had no idea where this was going but I just had to go along with it.

  ‘You might know him. Everyone thinks he’s a bit soft, but he knows what’s going on.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, but in reality I was thinking, ‘What? SOFT!’

  ‘Well, he’s not like a normal bloke. Not like me and you. I don’t know what’s going on with him. But he’s OK. He knows a few people in London and they like him. He works at Dr Barnardo’s. He’s a writer. With computers. He’s got my looks, but he’s more like his mother.’

  Everything was all jumbled up. There were bits of truths mashed together with whatever was going on in his brain.

  ‘What’s Linda like?’

  ‘Well, you know. Linda thinks a lot about things before she does anything. She’s got her head screwed on. He’s like her. I’ll just jump into things and not think.’ He paused and sipped his pint. ‘No, Linda knows what she’s doing. She takes forever to make a decision but once she makes it, her mind’s set on it. I let her sort out everything. I wouldn’t know what to do without her – she’s a diamond.’

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Oh, I met her at Blackpool one New Year. I was working up there, sorting out the entertainments. I was walking through these revolving doors and she was on the opposite side and I knew that one was for me.’

  I sat there in silence with tears pouring down my face as he talked about his life with Mum and his son. He was so proud of me and he was so much in love with Mum. It’s something I’d never ever heard Dad say my entire life. I thought he didn’t care, but here he was, describing his son, me, in every detail with so much pride in his voice.

  He talked to me about how he would always wind his son up. ‘When he was growing up and going on about this and that, I’d say the opposite,’ he laughed.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘He wouldn’t learn otherwise…’

  I took a huge gulp of air. All those bloody arguments where I would storm out, all those doors being slammed. I just never knew why he had to be difficult; I didn’t think Dad got me. But of course he got me, he understood me completely, and even with all my flaws and failings, I made him the proudest man on the planet. And at that moment, that was all I ever really needed to know.

  We finished our drinks and made our way out through a side room that had been roped off for a private meeting.

  ‘I’ll give you a song,’ Dad shouted as we pushed through the confused crowd.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is a private event. You’ll need to leave.’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re just passing through,’ I said. ‘We can’t get out the other way.’

  ‘Name a song and I’ll sing it,’ Dad said.

  ‘EXCUSE ME. Do you mind leaving, please?’ one woman bellowed at us.

  ‘Go on, Mrs!’ said Dad, jabbing his finger at this woman. ‘Name a song and I’ll sing it! Go on!’

  ‘This is a private event, thank you,’ the woman snarled.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ I said and put my arm around him. He tripped a few times over some bags and chairs, but eventually we got out and walked back to my flat, where Mum was watching the TV. Dad went off into the other room, exhausted by our outing.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s the matter? You look like you’re about to cry. Has he upset you?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ I said.

  After Dad had finished in the bathroom, I went in as Mum was right – I did feel like crying. I felt so incredibly sorry for him. The whole tragedy was that he was fading away and I didn’t want any more of him to disappear.

  Chapter 17

  By March 2016 the music was back and firmly a part of Dad’s everyday routine. Every weekend I came up, he had his music on downstairs in the back room, where we had set up his rec
ord player. One day I was listening outside the door as he belted out ‘Mack the Knife’ – when all of a sudden, he got all the words mixed up. He tried to get back into the song, but the words were all jumbled. Usually if he forgot lyrics he’d cover them up with something similar and would be able to get away with it, but this was a major mix-up. Just a load of random words that had nothing at all to do with the song. It was a sobering moment, to think that, at some point in the future, this would be the norm and I’d never be able to hear my dad sing like he used to. Then I imagined the house silent – with no music or no sound of Dad’s voice. Despite how embarrassed I’d been of his singing when I was younger, I knew his voice was everything to all of us; it was who he was. I wondered if he knew he’d mixed up all the words and how he felt as he tried to sing this song that held so many memories for him. ‘Mack the Knife’ was Dad’s song – his signature tune – now he couldn’t even remember the words that he’d sung hundreds of times before.

  I realized that we had to try and capture Dad’s voice while we could, so I decided that, as his Christmas present, I would take him to a studio and record him singing. I knew that time was running out and we had to do something quickly if I wanted to be able to play his music in the future. I set about doing some research and narrowed it down to three places. I explained about Dad’s condition and that there might be some aggression to deal with. The first two studios said they weren’t sure that it would be worthwhile and by the time I called the third place I was thinking about giving up completely. Finally, I spoke to a guy called Seamus from the Shamrock Recording Studio in Blackburn. I told him the entire situation: ‘My dad’s a former club singer – he’s about 80.’

  ‘What’s he like? Frank Sinatra, Al Martino?’

  ‘Yes! Sinatra, Al Martino, he knows loads, but he’s a Sinatra man at heart. I need to tell you that he’s got Alzheimer’s and he usually kicks off at the slightest thing. I just want you to know because it could be quite a difficult session,’ I said.

  ‘Not a problem, don’t worry. Which days are you thinking?’

  I gave a list of dates and booked something in. Finally we could make some good memories.

  I pulled together some of Dad’s old backing tracks and edited them down, cutting the tracks into the different songs. I had no idea what was on these minidiscs as I sat down to listen but was happy to hear that all the usual favourites were there: ‘Here in My Heart’, ‘I Won’t Send Roses’, ‘Lonely is a Man Without Love’.

  A few weeks later, I went back up and played the tracks through to Dad. His face lit up.

  ‘This is all the stuff I sing.’

  ‘I know, Dad.’

  He wanted to play them all day on a loop and I couldn’t help but hope that, just maybe, he was escaping to a better time, far away from the worry of not remembering. I was excited about the recording and knew his brothers and sisters would be too – Dad’s voice had been at the heart of the family for years and now we would all be able to listen to it whenever we wanted to. But on the day of the recording, he woke up in a terrible mood. You could just tell it was going to be a nightmare of a day.

  ‘Just see how it goes, Simon. If it doesn’t work out, at least we tried,’ Mum said, trying to reassure me.

  His face at breakfast was like thunder and I didn’t dare speak as he would just tut and shake his head at whatever was said. He wouldn’t accept any food that my mum touched or tea that she poured, saying that she was trying to poison him.

  Getting him to put on a different pair of trousers was impossible. In fact, the simple act of changing his musty trousers meant that Mum and I were both subjected to an hour of abuse. As I watched him ranting about his clothes, I couldn’t help but remember all the times I’d watch him get ready for shows and how much of a fuss he would make about the way he looked. Now he hardly ever changed his clothes at all. Worse still, at night, he had started to hide them under his pillow so that Mum didn’t even have the chance to wash them. Long gone were the days he would press a crease down the front of his trousers; now they were more likely to be found scrunched up in a ball, hidden away.

  Finally, we managed to get in the car. We had told Dad we were taking him to the house of a friend who was going to record his voice, but it didn’t really register. ‘I’m a professional singer, I don’t sing for nothing,’ he’d say.

  ‘Dad, we should be paying him, because he’s doing us a favour.’ I didn’t dare tell him that we were paying someone to record him sing.

  ‘I DON’T CARE – as long as they PAY ME,’ he snapped.

  There was no point trying to explain, it was easier to go with it when things were like this.

  However, as soon as we arrived at Seamus’s, the showman soon came out.

  ‘Dad, this is Seamus. He’s a friend of mine and he’s going to record you singing today.’

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur!’ said Dad enthusiastically.

  Seamus was Blackburn born and bred, over six feet and he towered above us all.

  ‘Right, then. I’m painting the studio at the moment, so we’re going to record it today in what is, essentially, the loft,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Christ! What have I done?’ I thought. ‘This is going to be a DISASTER.’

  We all headed upstairs. Dad marched ahead while Mum followed behind, carrying a blue plastic bag full of old CDs, music, a bottle of water and some lyrics to some songs she’d printed off in case she needed to prompt him. Seamus took us into the attic and explained where Dad should direct his voice and which headphones matched up to which mic.

  ‘Nope, nope! I’m not putting anything on my head. My hair will get messed up and I’m a PROFESSIONAL SINGER.’

  ‘But, Dad, you won’t hear the music if you don’t put the headphones on.’

  ‘I DON’T CARE. I GET WHERE I’M GOING AND I’M NOT PUTTING THOSE THINGS ON MY HEAD!’

  ‘Dad, look – I’ve got them on and I can hear all the music. Just have a try and see if you can hear it, too.’

  It went like this for about ten minutes before he eventually agreed to have them on his head.

  I walked back into the mixing room and told Seamus we’d go through the songs on the CD and see how it went.

  We started off with ‘Beyond the Sea’.

  All of a sudden, mid-flow, Seamus stopped the track.

  ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS HAPPENING? THEY’VE STOPPED THE MUSIC. I’M THE SINGER! WHERE’S IT GONE?’

  This. Was. A. Nightmare.

  ‘Hello Eddie – let’s go back a few bars and just re-record that bit again,’ Seamus said down the line.

  ‘WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE THEY DOING? I’M A PROFESSIONAL! I DON’T NEED THESE TWATS TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!’ He snatched his headphones off.

  I ran back into the mixing studio. ‘Hey, Seamus, we can’t really restart tracks – he will go berserk. I think the best thing is just to play it through and see what we can do.’

  ‘You’re right. My fault, I completely forgot. Normally we’d go back and re-record things.’

  Seamus started the track again.

  ‘OK, Seamus – we’re ready now,’ I shouted down into the mic.

  The music started.

  ‘Linda, what song’s this?’

  ‘Beyond the Sea.’

  ‘I can’t stand that song. I usually play with a big band in St Stephen’s, they all mob me there.’

  I started to worry that this was actually traumatic for Dad, as if he was stuck between two worlds, but only half in each, and watching him singing all his old songs, I think I truly understood the horror and terror for him. It must be like feeling you don’t belong anywhere at all, that your life has been turned inside out. In his head, he was still a superstar. The illness had taken away all his charm and made him the absolute opposite. Gone was the quietly confident young lad, who’d do anything for anyone. Now he was just an aggressive, arrogant nightmare.

  ‘Eddie, Simon bought you this for a present and we’re recording you so we can give a CD to al
l your brothers and sisters,’ Mum said.

  ‘Oh, OK then. Right, play the music.’

  ‘You’ll need to put the headphones on.’

  ‘I AM A PROFESSIONAL. I’M NOT WEARING THOSE.’

  I walked out of the recording room and into the mixing room. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to Seamus. ‘This is a big mistake. I’ll go back in and see if I can get him to wear the headphones and then see what happens – I’ll shout when he’s ready.’

  ‘Dad, look, if I put these on my head I can hear the band playing.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes, look… Why don’t you try it?’

  ‘So I put them on my head and I can hear them play?’

  ‘Yes.’ I was praying Seamus would take his cue from what I’d said.

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘WOW, that’s amazing! Linda, listen to this. Put this on your head and you can hear the orchestra.’

  ‘I know, I’ve already got them on,’ Mum said.

  ‘What? I can’t hear you. What did she say? I can’t hear you. Shussh, I’m trying to listen to the music.’

  Then he turned towards the wall smiling and shouted: ‘Brilliant, boys! Best music I’ve heard in years.’

  He went to the mic and started to sing, but just as the magic began to flow, his anger started again and we were back to square one.

  I was so embarrassed and started apologizing to Seamus for wasting his time.

  ‘He had it. If he would have just continued…’

  ‘OK. Look, let’s give it one more go and if it doesn’t work this time, I’ll call it a day.’

  I walked back into the attic room and he was still ranting.

  ‘Dad, if you put these on your head you’ll be able to hear the music.’

  ‘Oh, can you? Brilliant!

  ‘Eddie, we’re going to play “Beyond the Sea” so you just sing along when you want.’

  ‘OK, boss!’

  The music started. By now, I had my head in my hands because by this time we were about one hour into the session and I was pouring with sweat, just thinking about all the money I was wasting.