Listen to Ala Paredes on Let Me Tell You, a podcast from SBS Voices. I’m not placing any conditions on making music this time. We don’t always have to be extraordinary at the things we love doing. I know that as a musician, I will never be of any importance. And though I eventually became a decent player and singer, my primary goal was always joy.
It was flattering to think of myself as the daughter of a legend with magic in my blood, but had I let it sabotage me? It was time to let that go.Īt last, in my mid-30s, I had the privacy and freedom to happily make music without worrying if it was any good at all. How was I supposed to flourish under all that glare and pressure? Under the high standards of my father?īut also, I realised I’d been carrying a big ego. I’d been like a newly germinating seed, exposed to the elements too early. I saw then that I was denied the joy of being an amateur, to be just a kid who liked to make music for the fun of it. I hadn’t realised how deeply it had hurt all those years to not make music. Something stirred inside as I began to play old songs I loved. I’d offload the baby to my husband and strum till my cuticles scabbed over. Each day, my fingers itched for the feel of those four strings, those frets.
I didn’t know how to play, but it only took an hour and three chords for me to get hooked. I was 35 years old then, a new mum with postpartum depression who was grappling with certain missed opportunities in life. Soon, I moved to Australia where I buried the dream.Īnd that would’ve been the end of the story had I not randomly reached for my husband’s dusty ukulele. I conceded that I’d always be just a tourist in that world, loving music but unlicensed to participate. That was my last and only stab at making music before I decided I was unworthy. He watched one gig, said nothing, and never watched again. This was a man, after all, who had written, recorded and performed dozens of hits. But would they have been so harsh if I hadn’t been the daughter of a legend?Īs for my father, my band didn’t live up to his impeccable musical taste. It’s true I’d had a few mediocre performances. Though I eventually became a decent player and singer, my primary goal was always joy “She can’t really sing,” the ‘kindest’ ones said. The comments on the internet were unkind. With great trepidation, I joined a band as a vocalist. I suddenly found myself under the gaze of a scrutinising audience who wondered if I was made of the same magic as my father.
The fact that I followed my dad into the showbiz spotlight, as a TV presenter, did not make me more confident about singing. In early adulthood, I still felt like a fledgling finding her voice. I’d done nothing to deserve the support of a killer line-up other than a few good karaoke performances and having my father’s last name. “Just say the word and I’ll have a killer line-up ready for you!” “Come on, let’s form a band,” said my boyfriend, another accomplished musician.
“So when are you gonna do your own thing, huh?” they’d press, as though I was already part of their club. “Dude, your dad is a legend!”, said the cool muso kids on campus. But I felt timid as a mouse, not liking the feeling that people were waiting for me to do something amazing.Īt university, my dad’s reputation continued to precede me. It wasn’t that I didn’t like making music.