I wasn't sure that the leap to punk music and hip hop was going to stick. It was Havana and I's first musical connection. Our Friday afternoon dance parties, while mom was at work, were dominated, admittedly, by music of my choice. Stereophonics, Cyprus Hill, the Stooges. Oblivious to their meanings, she learned the words. We cranked up the volume, "louder, louder" she'd cry, and we danced. We'd run back and forth across the front room. I'd swing her around. She'd try swinging me around. We'd bounce. But Havana's first love with my music was to be short-lived.
I later realized that in order to appreciate my music, it was necessary for Havana to first pass through other music. Less complex, less angry, more sedate music. Pop music. It was impossible to make the leap direct to higher forms of music. Havana needed to procede through her Abba stage. And that's where we are. Dancing Queen. Mama Mia. Fernando. SOS. Waterloo.
I suspect that her mother is encouraging her, but I cannot produce any concrete evidence. Although Karen has suggested that Abba should not be judged superficially. That the catchy exterior of their melodies are twinned with darker lyrics, overwhelmingly about sadness and loss.
Almost every evening the parents are invited to take a seat on the sofa for a SHOW. Havana rushes back to the girls' bedroom and puts on her old Halloween pink tutu, returning to look for her little dance partner. Bjorn's piano intro opens and the two are off on their performance: Illy making spins that fall before completion and Havana showing off her latest dancing mad skills, while increasingly lip-synching the lyrics.
Where are those happy days, they seem so hard to find.
