"I got to do a B side for Mitch that went real well, and then I got
the chance to record an entire album, I think it was 1956 that
S'Wonderful came out -- and man it was a hit all over the place -- the DJ's
loved it, people danced to it, and Latin America loved it too. My
research paid off -- and I was making music for people -- music that everyone
could understand." My dad looked at me lovingly and said, "You are going
to be fine kid, just do whatever is in your heart to do and enjoy the
struggle of trying to make it -- because you will look back and it will be
the greatest time of your life."
We fell silent for a while, sitting in the kitchen, happy to be
spending some time together. I thought about my dad, and everything he
has done. He was the first pop artist from the West asked to go to Russia,
in 1973, to record an album in Moscow. He performed at the White House
during the Vietnam War. He has survived in the music business for over 40
years, and has made over 90 albums. He is the proud recipient of a
Grammy, two Grammy nominations, a Golden Globe Award, over 10 gold albums,
Australian awards, Brazilian awards, British awards, Mexican awards,
Peruvian awards -- recognition for doing what he does best. His catalog
sales have surpassed those of Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin. He has been
touring through South America for the past 25 year playing for audiences
of twenty-thousand smiling people singing along. At one show, when my dad
started to play "Besame Mucho" a woman screamed, "I conceived my first
child to this song!" All this from a poor kid from Attleboro,
Massachusetts who cried the first time he picked up a trombone.
My dad finished his espresso, and as he rinsed the cup in the sink, he said, "You never know who you are going to touch, or how what you do is going to affect other people. I think if you can affect at least one person in a positive way through your work, you have done well, you have done your job."
My dad responds to all of his fan mail -- he reads it all himself, signs pictures, and often writes back. He received a letter from a young woman in a Latin country. She was not living with her natural parents, and was severely neglected -- and when it was time for her confirmation, a very important day, she was completely ignored. This was a last blow for her, and she decided that life was not worth living anymore. She managed to get a hold of a gun, went to her room, put it to her head, and was about to pull the trigger when she heard some music coming from the record store down the street. It struck something in her, and she put the gun down and went to the record store. They were playing a Ray Conniff album. She wrote my dad to say thank you. He received another letter from a woman who had been in an insane asylum. She had been very despondent and did not speak or respond to anything. One day her husband brought in a record player and one of my dad's albums, and she visibly started listening to it. So, her husband kept bringing Ray Conniff albums for her to listen to, and she eventually pulled out of her depressive state and got better. She also wrote my dad to say thank you.
Ray Conniff turned 80 years old on November 6th, 1996, and he
is still recording approximately one new album a year. He tours annually
through Brazil with his complete orchestra and chorus, and full houses of
people of all ages sing and dance along as he runs up and down the stage
like a 20-year-old kid -- conducting, singing, talking to the crowd, playing
his trombone -- putting that creative energy out there that the audience
responds to -- music that makes people feel romantic and happy.
Over the years, when my friends are concerned about trying live in this world by following creative pursuits, I tell them what my dad told me. If you believe in your art, and you love what you do, that energy will go out, and people will respond. Don't make art for other artists or for 'intellectuals', make art for people -- and if you can touch just one person in a lifetime and make a difference -- you have succeeded. I tell my friends about my conversations with my father -- conversations with an artist.