My wife and I have been together since 2002.  So I have been trying to teach her about music since 2002.  And I have been failing to make an impact, since, let’s think about it, 2002.  Is it that she is distracted by my boyish good looks?  Is it that she can only learn something by writing it down?  Is it that learning the names of musical artists and song titles is akin to the difficulty I had learning medication side effects in my pharmacology class? Is it that she is secretly very much aware of all of the musical knowledge I wish she possessed and is playing her version of the most epic long-con on me? No, it’s definitely not the last one.

I don’t consider myself an expert on the subject of music, but I certainly have my share of knowledge. This has led me on the journey of a lifetime to pass a portion of my wisdom to my wife. There is a saying about teachers that goes something like this…those who can’t do, don’t, there is no try. Wait…that doesn’t sound right. Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now. 

Teaching, for some, is a calling. They are drawn to it, like a moth to your great-grandmother’s old clothing. Not that she is old, I mean I am sure she is old. I meant to describe the clothing as old, aged if you will. For me the teacher’s calling came early in the relationship that was forming between myself and this girl I went to school with (spoiler alert: it was my wife). There was a distinct occurrence that beaconed me to her aid and bid me try my hand at mentoring her with music education. 

Yes, I am getting to it. I am trying to build the tempo or whatever it is they do in songs. The moment I knew she was going to need this assistance involved the following song by Shania Twain: “Whose bed have your boots been under.” I hesitate to divulge the exact detail in case she finds it publicly embarrassing, but suffice it to say that her version of those specific lyrics included none of those words and the last syllable was neither “-er” nor a rhyme of “-er”. I admit her version had the same number of syllables, but that means almost nothing. For instance, what if you asked for the first lyrics of “Your Song” by Elton John and instead of “It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside”, I came up with “Shits a lotta green money, you know that it’s right”? You might laugh. And that is precisely what I did in her particular case. I gave her a hard time and made fun of her. That’s who I am. Maybe I should have just responded with “huh” and walked away from the situation. And yet, I couldn’t leave her hanging in her ignorance. Plus, what was she going to come up with next? I wanted to be around for that shit. It is priceless.

Although these occurrences are not rare, they don’t happen frequently either. I’m sure I could force the issue and drill her with questions about the lyrics to every song and work that mine. But that wouldn’t be in the spirit of the teacher within me. The fruit is sweeter when the time between bites is longer. That sounded so weird. Anyway, if I forced a lyrical fumble every day that would surely grow boring.  Yet on a random Friday night date shortly into our courtship (yeah, my old timey phrase game is strong) when ELO came through the ever wearing speakers of my Mustang and she de-harmonized with “beautiful woman”, it made my day.  And I still think of it on a regular basis today. That is why I mentioned it here. I literally thought of it just now. If you didn’t catch the issue with those lyrics, may I offer the true words “medieval woman”. Yeah, not only did she choose a word that doesn’t start with a similar sound, it was the cramming of the extra syllable that really sold it for me. Be-autiful. This is the sort of amazing inside experiences that can almost single-handedly hold a marriage together. 

There is much more to say on this subject so hang tight everyone. We need to discuss her confusion of Uncle Kracker and Jacob Dylan, her unnecessary and unyielding hate of Coheed and Cambria, and a myriad of other music mishaps. 

Oh, and as far as the Shania Twain lyrics go, and don’t tell her I told you this, but she thinks the song goes “Tuesday, happy boothday, baby.”

Yep, she still hasn’t been able to explain to me what “boothday” is. But if she is out there tonight reading this, it’s Wednesday so late happy boothday, baby.