Father’s Day on the Nightside
Ever since the Nightside became a Sunday night staple we have celebrated Father’s Day. Obviously since Father’s Day is always on Sunday but also with a nod to the Horace Silver classic “Song for My Father,” which has been covered by numerous jazz artists. There are lots and lots of songs and spoken word pieces pertaining to paternal subject matter. Voila! A show was born!
With that in mind I’m reaching out to all you Daddy-Os out there. It’s the KUVO Jazz equivalent to a nice new tie. (Or aftershave). So, at 9 pm on Father’s Day until midnight, it’s for the dads and acting dads…I hope you tune in.
If you have a Father’s Day story about your dad or a favorite song of his, I invite you to contact me at andyo@kuvo.org or text me in the studio Sunday night, however musical request will reach me better via email.
My Dad wasn’t around long, so I have a few very specific stories about him, but many of my friends are dads, and my respect for them is enormous. Many nations don’t celebrate the day, but at KUVO, we do it on The Nightside with poetry and song. I hope you join us, and I would like to share a poem from the great Countee Cullen.
Happy Father's Day!!!
Lines to My Father
The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,
That with the cool oblivion of sleep
A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.
If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout
One meagre blossom for our hands to cull,
Accustomed indigence provokes a shout
Of praise that life becomes so bountiful.
Now ushered regally into your own,
Look where you will, as far as eye can see,
Your little seeds are to a fullness grown,
And golden fruit is ripe on every tree.
Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage
Without travail, to which weak wills aspire;
This is a merited and grief-earned wage
From One Who holds His servants worth their hire.
So has the shyest of your dreams come true,
Built not of sand, but of the solid rock,
Impregnable to all that may accrue
Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock.
