Jason Isbell has been secret to survival
PARENTING: When nothing else got baby to sleep, his music worked
We were motoring through nowhere Alabama late one night last September, in the middle of a cross-country move to Houston, a trip that had already tested the limits of my sanity, when Jason Isbell’s voice filled our cramped minivan — and changed our lives.
Milo, our 8-month-old, had started screaming around Williamsburg, Va., and hadn’t really stopped in the four days since.
At first, we drove during the day: The kid screamed. Next day, we tried hitting the road around the time he’d normally take a nap: He screamed. We left super early: He screamed.
Screw it, I thought as we pulled out of Birmingham around dusk. I’ll drive through the night.
Now, as I zoomed down a darkened stretch of highway somewhere between Tuscaloosa and Meridian, the baby was wailing so loudly, I couldn’t hear the voice of my GPS. The 5- and 3-yearolds hadn’t been able to fall asleep and were starting to whine. My wife stared blankly out the passenger window, probably imagining how her life would have turned out if she’d married someone with the cash to buy a few plane tickets.
It was desperation, really, when I grabbed my phone and hit play on one of my favorite albums from the past few years: “Something More Than Free” by Jason Isbell. If I couldn’t calm the kid, maybe I could drown him out with Americana tunes.
A few twangy guitar chords emanated from the car speakers, and then the words: “I’ve been working here / Monday, it’ll be a year / And I can’t recall a day when I didn’t wanna disappear.” The screaming quieted. What the hell? By the time Isbell sang the line, “And working for the county keeps me … clear,” Milo was asleep. It was a fluke, I thought. But I was wrong.
Parents will do damn near anything to get a baby to sleep. That was one of the first things I learned after my oldest, Ezra, was born six years ago.
I remember pacing with him for hours one night that first week, trying to give my wife a break, but I crashed before he did, fell asleep standing up and walked him right into the wall.
My mother-in-law was staying with us and could tell we were struggling. She took the baby and sent me to bed. Hours later, we awoke to find Ezra sleeping in her arms and a Michael Bublé cover of “Me and Mrs. Jones” playing on repeat: “Me and Mrs. Jones, we got a thing going on / We both know that it’s wrong.”
Every night after that, we rocked or bounced the kid to sleep while Bublé crooned about a filthy affair with a married woman. I must have heard the song 10,000 times that year. We didn’t stop to consider the long-term psychological impact on our newborn. I’d have played Marilyn Manson’s lewd shock rock if it made him sleep.
Nearly six years later, as I crossed into Mississippi in a van full of sleeping kids, the Jason Isbell album ended. As I fiddled with my phone, looking for different music to play, Milo began to stir in the silence.
A few seconds later, he was wailing.
We listened to that album on repeat for the rest of the trip. The last leg, between New Orleans and Houston, was lovely.
We cruised over the swampy marshes of Louisiana, nodding along as Isbell serenaded us: “Are you living the life you chose? / Are you living the life that chose you?”
As we settled into our new home, Isbell became part of our daily lives. He sang to us at nap time. He sang to us as we explored Houston. He sang to us as we laid Milo down to sleep at night — and he kept on singing, on repeat, straight through the night.
We started calling him by his first name, like he was part of the family.
When Milo fussed in the morning: “Put Jason on.”
When Milo awoke in the middle of the night: “The phone died. He needs Jason.”
When Milo went on a nursing strike: “All he wants is Jason.”
My wife didn’t even like his music at first. Sounded too country to her ears. But after being subjected to it repeatedly, she grew to appreciate the songwriting, and soon she was singing along to her favorite tracks: “You were riding on your mother’s hip / She was shorter than the corn / All the years you took from her / Just by being born.”
But as with all good things, excess began to spoil it.
Months passed, and it finally happened: Jason fatigue set in.
“Something More Than Free” might be the most beautiful American folk album I’ve ever heard. Milo ruined it for me. Like him, I’ve now been conditioned to nod off as soon as I hear those first few chords. Lyrics that I’d loved started to grate on me: “You thought God was an architect, now you know / He’s something like a pipe bomb ready to blow.” We needed to wean him. And we have. For the past few months, I’ve gotten Milo to sleep by walking him through the neighborhood while I listen to Harry Potter audiobooks.
It seemed we’d turned the page on that chapter of our lives — and so had Jason. Last month, he released a new album with his band, the 400 Unit, “The Nashville Sound,” and I love it.
Then, last week, a thunderstorm rolled through and blew out the power at our house. No electricity to run fans or a noise machine. No way to walk Milo through the neighborhood without getting soaked. After a couple of hours trying and failing to get him to sleep, I gave in.
I strapped him into his car seat and started the van. I hit play on my phone then backed out of the driveway.
Jason’s voice rose above the distant rumble of thunder and, within a few minutes, had soothed the baby to sleep.