A Final Note: How Music Helped Me Grieve

Richard Axtell goes back to both his journal and the tunes that helped him through recent tough times.

A Final Note: image by Julie Primon

While on my own grieving journey, I learnt that in a country like the UK, with its stiff upper lip, it is generally more acceptable to show and feel emotions when music is playing. I never suspected my lip of being particularly stiff, but I have found music has also helped me grieve and remember those I have lost – often resulting in an emotional response so powerful it’s as if they are right there with me.

Below is a collection of musical moments, along with excerpts from my journal, that helped me reconnect with those I have lost and grieve.

***

I’m sorry, Joseph. We rushed to France – the fastest we have ever travelled – but that won’t change the fact that you were here yesterday at this time, and now you are gone.
—My journal, Friday 19^th January 2024.

The house hasn’t changed. It’s almost stubbornly the same. Same wooden floor, same large windows, same art on the walls. I am drawn to a space at the end of their living room. As I move, I mentally adjust my language. It is my mother-in-law’s home now. My father-in-law, Joseph, passed earlier this year. Still, his presence is felt as strongly as it was when he was alive, aided by his bande dessinée collection that lines the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the CD player, surrounded by stacks of CDs, which is where I am heading. 

I try not to look at Joseph’s chair on the other side of the room. I have seen him nap a thousand times after lunch in that chair. I’ve seen him play on his iPad in that chair. I’ve seen him watch N’Oubliez Pas Les Paroles on TV with the rest of the family in that chair. He died in that chair.

As my focus locks on the CD player, I’m caught by Françoise, my mother-in-law. My French, unfortunately, is not at a level where I can communicate well, but I point at the tower of CDs. “Je peux…?” (Can I…)? I can’t form more words than that, so gesticulate wildly. She nods and smiles. Permission granted. I grab a CD and read the cover.

Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen.

That’ll work. 

I seem to be drawn to his CD collection – to the CD player that remains unused by Françoise.
—My journal, Saturday 4th August 2024.

I feel like I am honouring him by listening to his music. As the folk-rock flows from speakers, I close my eyes and, for a moment, he’s back in the room. Music followed Joseph around in life. He and his whole family have little musical responses to actions around the house. My favourite was ‘Merci, Ri-ri, Mer-ci Ri-ri!’, a cheerful little tune which was sung at me whenever I passed something across the table at mealtimes (Riri has become a nickname of mine synonymous with France).

I still remember Christmas Eve when he put on Simply The Best by Tina Turner, dancing around the living room with his daughters in a wild frenzy. 

And then there is Bruce Springsteen. Bruce Springsteen and Joseph Primon are almost inseparable in my mind. When they were both young, they almost looked the same.

There is a line in the song Atlantic City on Springsteen’s Nebraska album. Springsteen sings about how everything dies, but maybe everything comes back after death too.

As the music plays, Joseph is back. 

When the song ends, I stand up and go sit in his chair. I feel the soft leather beneath my hands. It almost feels warm to the touch, like Joseph was sitting in it moments ago. The next song begins to play.  

A song played at Joseph’s funeral: Je chanterai après ma mort by Morice Benin (‘I will keep singing after my death’). 

Joseph’s daughter, my wife, sang it loudly at the end of the service as everyone queued up to touch the coffin, one last time. I like to think Joseph is still singing, although he was, unfortunately, tone-deaf.

***

Nana. The first thing that comes to mind is her smile – it took up her whole face. Closely followed by her laughs. Her hugs. The soft whistle of her hearing aid when she held you close.
—My journal, a first draft of my eulogy, Monday 8^th June 2024. 

I’m seventeen. It’s summer 2006. I’m going through a rebellious period, which means I am growing my hair as long as possible, but not actually breaking any rules. I’m not a very good rebel. The family have decided to have a holiday at a Centre Parcs so we have gathered in a wooden chalet in a forest. On the second day here, a deer came right up to the French windows and stared at us all. Everyone thought it was beautiful. I am worried about deer ticks and don’t really want to go outside (again, not a fantastic rebel).

Nana hasn’t been confident on her feet for a while. Something in her ears throws off her balance, so she doesn’t want to move around too much. This results in my dad, her and myself sitting in the chalet while others go out to play tennis. We drink tea. We chat politely.

I ask if I can put on some music. I’m very proud of my new iPod Nano, bought for me by parents (so I can listen to my rebellious music) and we have brought a speaker to plug it into. My latest obsession is the ska punk band Reel Big Fish. On their album Cheer Up, they have an a capella version of New York New York. I put it on and turn it up (Nana’s ears don’t work very well, after all).

Nana, known for her smile and loving personality, looks disgusted. 

I very quickly turn off the music.

“They’ll never be as good as Frankie,” she says in no uncertain terms. “His voice was beautiful.”

I don’t have a leg to stand on. You can’t really compare the crooning, smooth voice of Frank Sinatra with the shouty, excitable voices of Reel Big Fish. We collectively decide that music isn’t a good idea.

Photo by Andrea Riondino on Unsplash

Nana’s funeral is in about four hours. I am nervous. Anxious. I guess for it to happen means Nana is truly gone. A final note. A goodbye.
—My journal, Friday 14^th June 2024.

I’m on a rooftop terrace in Lavaur – a small town in the south of France. Our airbnb is huge – four floors, three bedrooms, a huge living room with a TV the size of the wall. It doesn’t fit the small farm town vibe of Lavaur, but we aren’t complaining. We have gathered on the rooftop terrace, surrounded by cacti, red bricks, and the tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings. I’m with the French side of the family and all have gathered around a table covered in food – an aperitif before dinner. The weather is hot and dry and the food is good. We are all relaxed. This is the first time we have all properly got together since Joseph’s funeral. I hold a glass of wine and stare out at the stars above the city. The sky is remarkably clear of light pollution here.

That’s when I hear it. The sound drifts lazily through the hot evening air. The deep, crooning voice of… not Frank Sinatra, but someone trying to do an impression of him. They want to fly to the moon. I’m caught, tugged towards it like a hook around my heart. I can’t help but start to sing along. Nana’s funeral was two months ago, but suddenly it is like she is standing next to me in Lavaur. 

“They’ll never be as good as Frankie,” I mutter to myself with a smile. I’m caught in that paradox of grief, a tangle of sadness and happiness at the memories as I think of Nana and listen to the music drift through the hot air of southern France.

A song played at Nana’s funeral: Barbara by Frank Sinatra. Nana’s name was Barbara Axtell. It felt like he was singing to her. 

***

Granddad is unresponsive. He has days left apparently. We are at the end now. I don’t think I’m ready. Please stay. Please get better. Please.
—My journal, titled ‘Lockdown, day 31’, 29^th April 2020. 

Granddad’s funeral is small. We could have filled the room to the brim with people from his two churches – the Quaker church he attended on Sunday mornings, and the Church of England church he attended on Sunday evenings. It could have been bursting from the seams with people from his choir, with the people in his address book. 

But there are twelve of us, including the man running the service. Lockdown rules prohibit any more.  

We stand outside the crematorium by the entrance waiting for the coffin. Like most days in lockdown, the weather is offensively sunny and warm. I have seen the words ‘Nature is healing’ online more times than I can count in the last few months. There is an excitable chatter through masks as we see faces in person, not through a screen, for the first time in a while. Should we hug? Should we stay apart? Questions buzz around us before settling down to quiet as the hearse arrives. We follow the coffin inside and sit in the front two rows. The chairs are still out for all the missing people in the crematorium, making the room feel even more empty.

In the service, I try to, and successfully, make everyone laugh in my eulogy titled ‘Thoughts about Granddad.’ It’s a funny story about me nervously showing him my sketches for the first time, and him cracking an inappropriate joke. I’m told later by my father that ‘only I could make people laugh at a funeral’ and I feel pleased. On reflection, it was my way of hiding from my own emotions, concealing the tears with jokes. Humour is my comfort blanket.

During the funeral, The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams is played – although only for four minutes as the entire piece is fifteen minutes long and there is already a (very short) line forming outside for the next cremation. 

The lark is a bird known for singing before dawn, a symbol of a new day. The music captures the flight of the bird, flying around, rising and falling, and as the music swells to a crescendo you can almost feel the sun rising in the distance – and then the music is cut because we need to move on with the service.

It was a new day, but a new day without Granddad.

Dear Granddad, Today I listened to The Lark Ascending and thought of you. I have a new appreciation for Vaughan Williams. A final gift from you, I suppose. The music paints a slow, beautiful picture. I wonder if you listened while you painted? I realise I never actually saw you do art. 
—My journal, Thursday 5^th September 2024.

It’s four years after the funeral when I find a half-written letter to Granddad that I never sent. The letter is short, filled with jokes about an upcoming visit to the dentist (my first in eight years!). My hand-writing is straight and neat, each letter carefully printed. I’m trying to make a good impression and be a good, proper, grandson. I don’t know what to do with the letter now. 

I’m filled with a sadness I haven’t felt in years. A longing deep in my gut to talk to Granddad, like my body can’t recognise that he is gone. I find myself loading up Spotify and listening to The Lark Ascending. I listen to the piece in its entirety. The sun rises, the lark sings. I listen to it again. The sun rises. I am journalling at the same time on the third time around. The lark sings. I find these journals come out as letters addressed to Granddad. 

I pour out words onto the page, handwriting messy, telling him I miss him. I ask him questions about art. I ask him how he is doing. I wish him well.

At the end of the letter, Love from Richard, I feel a sense of release. My sadness rests just as the final notes in the music play. 

Now, when I need to talk to him, I put the music back on, and let the lark, and my words, take flight.

Photo by blocks on Unsplash

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Richard Axtell is a Cardiff-based writer who thinks about death a lot and sometimes writes for children. You can find out more about him on his website: www.richardaxtell.co.uk