My First Concert Happened Before I Was Born

How music, sound, and curiosity sparked a lifelong fascination with frequencies.

If you read my last blog, you already know that curiosity was practically a family tradition in our house. My dad was always reading, researching, experimenting, and asking questions. He wasn't the kind of person who accepted things simply because someone told him they were true. He wanted to understand them for himself. Looking back, I realize I inherited a lot from my dad. Unfortunately, it wasn't his eye color. What I did inherit was his curiosity and what appears to be a genetic talent for gaining five pounds simply by making eye contact with a dinner roll.

One of the rabbit holes Dad and I explored together over the years was frequencies. But long before I ever heard the word "frequency" used in a wellness conversation, I was experiencing them in ways I didn't yet understand.

In fact, my first concert happened before I was born.

At least that's how the story goes.

Mom was very pregnant with me, the kind of pregnant where you're counting days instead of months. She and Dad went to a Creedence Clearwater Revival concert, and according to Mom, the music was so loud that her entire belly was vibrating. She remembers being a little concerned about all that movement. I was apparently having the time of my life. The funny thing is that years later, long before I knew that story, I found myself constantly pulling Creedence albums off the shelf whenever I wanted music to listen to. Nobody had told me about the concert yet. I just loved the music.

Was it because that was technically my first concert experience? Probably not. But it's a much better story than admitting I simply had excellent taste in music.

Music was woven into the fabric of our family. Dad played guitar. He played banjo. In fact, he built the banjo he played. There always seemed to be music somewhere in our house, but trying to pin down a single genre would be nearly impossible. Some days it was The Eagles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doobie Brothers, or Journey pouring through the speakers. Other days it might be country music, bluegrass, or oldies. Dad especially loved The Beatles and could often be found playing Beatles songs on his guitar. Mom brought her own favorites into the mix as well. ABBA, Elvis, Linda Ronstadt, Peter Frampton, and the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack all had their turn in the rotation. Looking back, I realize our family soundtrack was less about musical categories and more about whatever made us happy that day.

One of my favorite family traditions was something Dad called Sunday Morning Music. Every Sunday before we left for worship, he'd put on a Windham Hill album. Usually it was acoustic guitar or piano. The music wasn't loud and it wasn't demanding attention. It simply filled the house in a way that made everything feel calmer.

At the time, I thought it was just background music. Looking back now, I suspect Dad knew exactly what he was doing. He had three kids, and I think he was trying to keep us from turning Sunday morning into complete chaos before worship. Somehow it worked. The same house, the same kids, and the same routine somehow felt different when that music was playing. Everything seemed softer, slower, and more peaceful.

Of course, not all of Dad's musical experiences were quite so relaxing.

One of my favorite childhood memories involved his bright orange conversion van. Not a modern van. A real 1970s conversion van. Orange on the outside and covered in brown shag carpet on the inside. The kind of vehicle that today would probably qualify as a historical artifact. The back had a platform about the size of a small twin bed where we'd stretch out during road trips. This was the 1970s, so let's just say safety standards were a little different than they are today.

But the real attraction wasn't the platform.

It was what sat in front of it.

Two giant house speakers.

And a beanbag chair.

That was the setup.

Dad would put on music and we'd sit in that beanbag directly in front of the speakers while he slowly turned the volume up. Then he'd turn it up a little more. Then a little more. Before long, the music wasn't just something you heard. It became something you felt. The bass vibrated through the floor, through the seat, and through your chest. If Dad got particularly enthusiastic, your hair would actually move from the air coming out of the speakers.

As a kid, I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I wasn't thinking about sound waves or vibration or frequencies. I was simply experiencing the fact that something invisible could have a very real effect on how I felt. Looking back, I think that may have been my first lesson in frequencies. Not the science of frequencies. The experience of them.

Because whether we're talking about music, sound, or simply the atmosphere in a room, we've all experienced things we can't see but can absolutely feel. A song can instantly transport us back twenty years. A melody can bring tears to our eyes. A piece of music can energize us, calm us, comfort us, or help us focus. The sound itself is invisible. The experience is not.

As I got older, I began to notice that some of the most interesting conversations in wellness revolved around things we couldn't necessarily see. Not because they were mysterious or magical, but because they challenged us to think beyond what was obvious. The more I learned, the more I realized how much of our world operates through invisible forces. The phone in my hand communicates through signals I can't see. The music that once rattled the windows of Dad's orange van traveled through the air as invisible waves. Light itself moves through frequencies. Even the conversations we're having right now are riding on signals moving around us every second of the day.

That realization sparked a question I still find myself asking.

If invisible things influence our lives in so many ways, what else might we be overlooking?

Over the years, that question led me down some fascinating rabbit holes. I became interested in grounding and the idea that reconnecting with the earth might influence how we feel. I explored Red Light Therapies, PEMF technology and the ways electromagnetic fields are being studied in wellness settings. I became curious about charged jewelry, charged nutrition, and the energetic properties people have observed in plants, foods, and natural substances throughout history. Some of those ideas are still being researched. Some are debated. Some have passionate supporters and equally passionate skeptics.

What interests me isn't having all the answers.

It's the willingness to keep asking better questions.

Years later, Dad and I found ourselves having conversations about frequencies in a completely different context. We talked about wellness. We talked about the powerful frequencies in essential oils. We talked about the fascinating possibility that there may be more happening beneath the surface than we fully understand. Then, during Dad's cancer journey, music and frequencies took on a different meaning altogether.

There were certain sounds and frequencies he loved listening to because they helped him relax. They seemed to bring him comfort during a difficult season of life. Whether that comfort came from the sound itself, the memories it evoked, the relaxation it encouraged, or something else entirely wasn't nearly as important to him as the simple fact that it helped.

What fascinated me was that those same frequencies had the exact opposite effect on my mother.

The sounds that seemed to soothe Dad absolutely grated on her nerves. Where he found peace, she found irritation. Where he relaxed, she tensed up. I remember thinking how strange that was. How could the exact same sound create such different experiences? The older I get, the less strange it seems.

We're all different.

Our experiences are different.

Our memories are different.

Our bodies are different.

Maybe that's why I've always approached conversations about wellness with curiosity instead of certainty. What works beautifully for one person may do absolutely nothing for another. And sometimes the thing that helps one person feel calm can make someone else want to leave the room. Dad and Mom reminded me of that every time those frequencies started playing.

These days, conversations about frequencies can get complicated very quickly. Some people approach them from a scientific perspective. Others approach them from a wellness perspective. Some people are deeply skeptical. Others are deeply fascinated. Personally, I think curiosity is the best place to begin.

Not certainty.

Curiosity.

The willingness to ask questions.

The willingness to explore.

The willingness to stay open to learning something new.

That's the greatest gift my dad ever gave me. Not that he had all the answers. But that asking questions was always worthwhile. Maybe that's why frequencies still fascinate me today. Not because I claim to understand everything about them, but because I've spent a lifetime discovering that some of the most powerful things in life can't always be seen.

Sometimes they can only be felt.