By Jamie Y. Marable

One often hears about the “preacher’s kid”—whether through gossip, public scandal, craftily woven novels, or personal stories. While I certainly would not want the kind of public attention preachers’ kids often receive, I can say that being the daughter of a musician is no less interesting. It is in fact an experience that one would have to live to fully understand.

I am probably my father’s biggest fan. A local saxophone player in Chicago, Illinois, he is neither rich nor world-renowned, but his passion for music has inspired me throughout my life. I Google him regularly to see what information is out there on him, ask him to save fliers, program copies and any other tangible items that I can place in a scrapbook, and sit proudly—front and center—whenever I have the privilege of attending one of his gigs. Whether he is writing and composing music at home, revving up at a rehearsal, playing at a local club, or performing at a festival, I get a rush from hearing my father play.

My earliest memories of music are from growing up in an apartment complex owned and occupied by local musicians on the South Side of Chicago. It was far from upscale, and not everyone would be able to stomach the beats and melodies that permeated the building throughout each day. For those of us who lived there, however, it was a way of life. And for me, it was routine to return home from school to the sound of drums, pianos, horns and singing as we walked toward the entrance to our apartment. Although my father and I shared many wonderful times together, I developed an understanding early on that rehearsal time at home was sacred. He would go into the den and close the double doors, and I knew that unless it was an emergency, I had better find something else to do besides bug him about trivial things! His music provided a wonderful background for all of my activities around the apartment—whether I was playing in my room, spending quality time with my mother, doing homework or writing poetry. At times my mother was irritated by his playing, but to me it was just “what Daddy does”; it came with the territory.

One of my favorite memories is going with my father to Old Town Chicago for rehearsals with a band he was playing with at the time. He always made the trips fun for me. There was a candy store we would stop at that featured giant barrels of candy. I remember developing a love for “rock candy” with its crystal-like appearance and super-sweet taste. We would stop there before or after rehearsal, and I would stock up on enough rock candy to last me until the next rehearsal.

Old Town was also where I developed my first crush on an “older man” named Kenny, who my father played with in the band. The rehearsals were in Kenny’s apartment in Old Town. He was in his late teens or very early twenties at that time, and I was still a little girl. However, I swore that when I grew up I was going to marry Kenny and we would grow old together in Old Town!

I will also never forget Donald, another musician that my father played with, who had mastered his Donald Duck impersonation and would have me laughing hysterically every time I saw him. He loved to make me smile, and his mission was always easily accomplished.People often ask if I play an instrument, and the answer is no. I always scored high on music aptitude tests that I took in school, but I never had a desire to become a musician. My father knows how to play a number of instruments besides the sax, and once I asked him to give me piano lessons. But I discovered learning to play the piano required much more patience and discipline than I was willing to devote as a young girl. Some time later I decided I wanted to become a singer, but that too proved to be a passing fancy. Instead of music, I chose writing as a form of creative expression. Ironically, whenever I write there is always music playing—if not actually in the background, then figuratively in my head.

The last time I had an opportunity to hear my father play was at last summer’s Chicago Jazz Festival. The annual festival showcases the talents of outstanding jazz musicians; some are known all over the world, and others are well-known and respected in the city. Seeing my father on stage brought back so many fond memories of growing up and learning about music through his life. My mind could not help but drift back in time to the days when I was a little girl who went with Daddy to rehearsals and relished the gift of music he so unselfishly shared with me. Each time I hear him play, that excited little girl returns. And although he is a humble man who tends to downplay his accomplishments, I could not be more proud of him for remaining true to himself and his craft.

                                                                            
                   Me with my father, Edwin A. Daugherty, Jr. at the 29th annual Chicago Jazz Festival. Summer 2007
                   Credit: Shirley A. Daugherty

Bio: Dr. Jamie Y. Marable is a “born-again writer” who has returned to her first love after a long hiatus. A journalism major in college who wrote features articles and editorials for her college newspaper, she later went on to become a higher education professional. Read more of her work at: Associated Content.