I start playing songs to my son James from the moment he is born. If I’m given the job of rocking him back to sleep, I usually put on reggae: Junior Murvin’s Police and Thieves and Dawn Penn’s You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No) tend to do the trick. If my partner Ginny or I sing along to whatever is on the CD player, it brings him a gurgling kind of delight. In this, he is – obviously – no different from any other child. But not long after his first birthday, I get a sharp sense that music might speak to him in a particularly vivid, mood-altering way.
I play James the title track of Clear Spot by Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band only once. Its mixture of discordant guitar, growling vocals and knock-kneed drumming, I suspect, might strike him as curious and funny, like a big, monster-centred production number from Sesame Street or The Muppet Show. But it has pretty much the reverse effect: within a few seconds, his face is suddenly filled with an expression of absolute panic, he screams in protest, and I instantly know I have to turn it off and never put it on again.
