Desperate to find him again in the house, we played all his favourites loudly and mournfully. I never thought about playing it at home or listening to it in the car.Īnd then when Aidan died we hunted out his songs, his noise. I, too, fell in love with the record, but only in the context of the production. Each time I managed to vaguely find the sound he was making, he’d let me drink a sip of my beer and eat a handful of salty Spanish popcorn. I love to sing along with her when she’s playing guitar, but I never hit one right note.Īidan tried to teach me to sing once in 2002 in a bar in Barcelona before we had children. My daughter is convinced I’m tone deaf, and she’s probably right. But mostly, it’s background noise for me.

If I’m watching a band, it gets my full attention. They each play multiple instruments and can recognise a song in seconds. Our children have been blessed with their father’s musical genes. The only person without any musical talent at all except for a little Year 8 flute. I’ve always been the family joke in our house when it comes to music. And when he died, they divvied up his extensive vinyl collection and squirrelled it away in their bedrooms. The kids now know these songs well, having listened to them for hours with their dad. Records from his past, records from my children’s childhoods. The Smiths, The Housemartins, Morrissey, The The, The Rolling Stones, McCartney.

On a Sunday, he’d bring the old vinyl out, chewing through a stack of records, picking tracks and educating the kids.

Everything is Changed by Nova Weetman