Finding a Voice

Before February 3^rd of 2003 I was a silent voice and my father was considered the greatest producer of all time.  It’s a personal opinion I know, but one that many in the music business and fans of music have shared. For as long as I could remember, Phil Spector was the mad genius of Rock and Roll and the man behind the Wall of Sound.  Some thought that was a big deal.  To me, I knew the darker side of him but I stayed silent.  Who was I to disagree, argue, challenge or condemn such an icon?  

Eccentric was the choice word when it came to my father.  Often used as an “excuse.”   “Oh, your father is just eccentric, that’s why he carries guns around” or “that’s just him being eccentric, you know he loves you.”  But after February 3^rd of 2003, when Lana Clarkson lost her life, that word slowly faded away and I began to find a voice.

At first I stayed away from any press though they were knocking at my door so-to-speak.  I did that for two reasons: 1-I didn’t trust my voice.  I’ve been silent for so long that I didn’t trust myself not to become the Niagara Falls of information.  2-I needed first to hear it from my father.  To hear him say he didn’t do it.  I didn’t want to hear it from anyone else, not his lawyers, his friends and certainly not the public.  It had to be him and him alone but it bacame his turn to be silent.

There was also a 3^rd reason I kept to myself.  A personal one that involves the family.  It seemed some were eager to talk, be heard and express themselves and for justifiable reasons.  A part of me, the selfish part, waited to see if Dad would scorn them, berate them and disregard them as spoiled, angry disturbed young men whose sole intention was that to destroy their father.  I also wanted to see if Dad would use their words about him to justify his silent treatment towards them- and the only way to do that was, someone had to remain silent.   For one year I said nothing but our father treated us all the same.  Not one of us heard a word from him.  Not a word of his innocence or guilt.  It didn’t matter if we spoke against him or spoke not at all about him, we just didn’t matter and I wanted to prove to my brothers that keeping silent wouldn’t make a difference.

 

 

When I did decide to speak, it was the first day of his trial.  Before then, no one cared who I was or what I had to say, or so I thought. I, along with Frieda (my lady friend) were waiting in the hallway just outside the doors leading to the court room.  Reporters surrounded us, not knowing who I was.  It felt like some kind of reunion, as each seemed to know one another.  Hands were shaken, praises were given, and the recognition between them was obvious.   I was the stranger in the room attracting a small amount of attention.   Perhaps they were thinking I was a family member but that was quickly proven false when Dad walked passed me as if I was a stranger to him.  It wasn’t until the two closed doors opened once again to let a few select people in, that I thought it would be best if I let the person know who I am as I didn’t want to miss my father’s first day of trial simply because I was mistaken for a fan or a morbid person who just loves a good murder trial.  Though I quietly introduced myself as a family member, my words passed though the ears of the reporters pushing against me hoping to persuade the lady at the door for a spot in the court room.   As the lady disappeared to check if I would be considered important enough to attend my father’s murder trial, more eyes were on me.  Notepads were being used and the room became silent.  Perhaps it was in my head, the fear, the judgment or even the attention was all in my head but non-the-less, my heart was pounding as if I was just about to go on stage to perform a play and I forgot all the words.  Then a lady approached me, handed me a card and said “If you want to talk…” and then left.  After that, another person handed me a card as they asked “Are you one of the kids?”  I answered as I took their card and placed it in my pocket with the other card.  Suddenly I realized that people wanted to hear what I had to say and a part of me wanted--no, needed to talk.  It had been many years since anyone cared to hear what I had to say.  I only wish it was my father ears I was talking to, but his ears have been closed to me ever since I was a child trying to find a voice.