Jed Wolf

I’ve been a musician in one form or another my entire life. Born with talent and the need for attention, like a small jungle bird, I learned early on, rather than crying which got me spanked, making sonorous sounds drew more positive attention.

It wasn’t long before elementary school music teachers winced at my singing’s decibels and berated me for not regularly practicing the piano. “What a waste,” I heard continually, but with little else, I played and sang with fortitude.

At around age eight, when all my music began to draw were sighs, I tasted the passive aggressive power of being a perennial disappointment. I pressed on “self taught” ‘till boarding school where I met a grand piano in a dark auditorium. I’d fling open the doors on warm nights and play that beast for the hillsides ‘till a motley crew of stoners wound up beneath us on the floor.

There were others at that school who took practicing seriously but I’d begun experiencing the attention showing off provided as negative. Performing felt manipulative so why study it? It became boring and teaching it’s pathos felt disingenuous. “Let ‘em get a massage,” I’d say as sociopathic seeds tempting to sprout within me irritated my soul.

This inner response to my talents forged itself throughout my life. In order to remain off stage and out of the classroom, I wrote many songs and a few musicals but the attention they drew was equally heartbreaking. Having people wonder why I never “made it” is about as appealing as auditioning for “The Voice,” so it’s no wonder I prefer singing for folks with brain damage.

I quit a huge retirement place yesterday because the audience still had their wits. “The Preserve” payed more than everywhere else – $125 per hour but the activities director slipped me a note before my gig asking me to be less friendly. “Though most appreciate you,” she said, “we had a complaint.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. I was fired from “Passages” for sprinkling tissue paper like snow onto a Snoopy puppet while singing “Christmastime is Here.”

Seniors who still play golf play other games as well. Coquettish woman disrobe me with their eyes then act offended if I drop to a knee as their husbands squint and rudely blurt out requests. Before she had a chance to say I was stiff, I graciously thanked yesterday’s activity director and said I would not be returning.

But people with dementia are wonderfully free and their enthusiasm contagious. Something about their dire straights brings out the very best in everyone including staff and most of all me. I get to work with them a lot and giving up on those who don’t appreciate me feels fine.

Last week I fell for a Purell wall dispenser, delicately caressing it’s foam on my cheeks while singing “If I Loved You.”

Folks with dementia eagerly hold my hands. We hug and gaze at one another wordlessly through jungled lifetimes sharing our vital essences so generously I could cry, so I do, sonorously.