How Michael Franti Saved My Marriage

Many years ago, when our relationship was just a young bud, I took The Hubby to the Byron Bay Blues Festival. I’d spent many years at music festivals of all different kinds, as a performer and a punter. I loved them. I loved music. I’d spent most of my twenties and thirties playing in bands, touring and recording. Now I was working in radio. Festivals were still on the agenda but this time I was usually presenting an outside broadcast or interviewing musicians.

The Hubby had spent most of his twenties and thirties in a very different world. A world of aircraft carriers, trackers, Orions and uniforms. Sure he liked music but his tastes were formed by the mainstream and restricted by what was available on board or at the base.

Bluesfest was an ear opening experience for him. I dragged him from one must-see, or must-hear, to the next. I was in heaven. The Hubby was not. He became decidedly downcast. He didn’t know any of the acts, he’d never heard of them and what he heard he didn’t like. I couldn’t believe it.  Here we were, surrounded by the best music in the world and he was unhappy, dejected, out of place.

I thought dancing together might cheer him up. Another disaster. When I’d played bass and then rhythm guitar in bands  I’d always sat just behind the beat. I liked to stretch out the rhythm into a relaxed lope. The Hubby, perhaps due to the military bands and all that marching, sat right on the beat, or even just in front, always vigilant, always aware. Our dancing became an awkward, wordless struggle. We were clumsy together and became impatient with each other.

In the meantime the kind of bloke I used to go out with was circling. A three-quarter boy with a lopsided grin, a cigarette and a pair of drum sticks. Yep, yet another muso. Charming and shiftless but talking a language I understood. The more The Hubby struggled with the sounds he was hearing, the more I was tempted to stray. Back to the world of talking crap and hanging out, of being surrounded by a pack of wise-cracking musicians strutting their stuff. The world I used to live in. The life I left behind. The pull back to that louche existence was strong in this time of doubt.

I looked at The Hubby and saw a stranger. The man I loved, the honest, soulful, wise and funny man, was gone. I couldn’t see him. Instead a saw a grumpy, rhythmless lump. A millstone. I wanted to be free. Free to enjoy the kaleidoscope of music, free to dance to my own beat, free to indulge in the sonic feast spread out before me. Free of my husband.

And then Michael Franti came on stage.

The Hubby stopped frowning. His body loosened up. There was a hint of a smile on his lips.

‘I like this man,’ he said. ‘I can understand every word he’s singing. His message is great. He has something worth saying. And I like the music.’

The Hubby nodded his head in agreement with Michael Franti’s words. The nod became a smile, the smile became a dance.

I stopped frowning. I loosened up. I began to smile.  I reached for my husband’s hand. If this man could love Michael Franti, I could love this man.

We were back. Back in alignment. Back in love. All thanks to Michael Franti.

Ten years later The Hubby and I were at another music festival. Michael Franti was playing. I said to The Hubby, ‘Let’s go check out his sound check, before the crowds get there.’

We sat on the grass in the natural amphitheatre at the Woodford Folk Festival. Michael Franti gave us, and the other ten or so people who’d had the same idea, a private concert. We danced, we cheered, we clapped, we laughed. And then he came down from the stage in his bare feet, walked over to the grass and sat with us for a chat and an acoustic song. It was magical.

And did I tell him the story of how he’d saved our marriage? You bet I did. He looked askance at first. Unsure of where the story was heading. But when I got to the end there was laughter and hugging. Lots of hugging. “Everybody gotta hug somebody at least once a day.”

Thank you Michael Franti, the man who saved my marriage.

Above is the song he sang on that magical afternoon. If you listen closely you can hear The Hubby and me singing along.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s