PORCELAIN by MOBY. Story by Michael Raymond.

Seattle, Washington 1999-2000

Whenever I see a parent carrying an infant in a baby carrier, the ambient techno melody of Moby’s ‘Porcelain’ plays inside my head. I sometimes think if not for the meditative sound of ‘Porcelain,’ I might have never been able to rock my newborn son to sleep.

The dreamy song somehow soothed the savage beast of my whirling dervish refuse-to-sleep son Casey. I would pace the floor, bouncing him in my arms, swaying to the beguiling mix of hushed synthesizers and delicate touches of piano and cello. Quite the unconventional song structure, but totally entrancing for both of us. Moby adds a few gentle vocals to a soft background chorus, but the cumulative effect or sum of its considerable parts is just a gorgeous song with a rich texture and layers of instrumentation that wash all over you.

The Moby album Play came out in 1999, a year of emotional whiplash. As if buying a house and starting a demanding new job wasn’t enough, I became a first-time parent right after the death of my father. It was the year we were supposed to party like it was 1999. Mostly because it really was 1999.

My wife Carina and I had arrived in Seattle in the late ‘90s after our Doc Marten and leather jacket years in Melbourne, Australia. Our past lives as wandering backpackers and bohemian vagabonds was over and replaced by the dichotomy of trying to be responsible adults and parents, all while clinging to whatever was left of our irreverent wayward past.  Wanderlust dies hard.

Play was released the day after my father died. Perhaps a gift from the heavens. The lush orchestration and themes of mortality and afterlife created a yearning for solace that hit me hard in every happy-sad way imaginable. The emotional and spiritual gut punch of songs like the haunting ‘When It’s Cold I’d Like to Die’ or ‘God Moving Over the Face of the Waters’ felt transcendent.

But ‘Porcelain’ was the song. It encapsulated all these conflicting emotions, evolving from a melancholy song to something hopeful with the birth of my son.

The song not only reminds me of rocking my newborn son to sleep, but also losing my father.

***

I certainly knew life would be different after Casey was born. When you’re half-dressed and driving to the grocery store at four a.m to find baby formula for your screaming infant that you just brought home from the hospital, that’s when you know your life will never be the same.

Walking the deserted aisles, I looked like The Dude in The Big Lebowski. I may as well have been wearing plaid shorts, tattered robe, and dark sunglasses. I fought the impulse to grab a carton of milk from the shelf and open it for a sniff.

But getting my kid fed was one thing. Getting him to sleep or at least nap was damn near impossible. Until I discovered ‘Porcelain’.

Mind you, it wasn’t just ‘Porcelain’. The entire album had this evocative blend of electronica and blues mixed with gospel samples into a downtempo techno and ambient groove that was like a musical sedative to a restless baby. Unless I just brainwashed Casey and turned him into Pavlov’s dog. “Dad’s playing Moby again. I must be sleepy.”

While the song was serenading Casey and he slept without a care in the world, my heart was breaking in half with a strange mix of sorrow and joy, thinking about my father and Casey never getting to know each other.

But the joy came with fatherhood. I just never saw it coming.

One day it hit me while ‘Porcelain’ was playing.

I was about to spend the rest of my life worrying about the well-being of this new life form, who would grow into an amazing human being with his own personality, despite whatever foibles and eccentricities I would invariably pass on to him.

I became a father for the first time—and forevermore.

***

Epilogue

Now that Casey’s a young man living on his own, we do joke about ‘Porcelain’ from time to time. He’s already quite the musical connoisseur and tastemaker himself, so perhaps something got passed on during those Moby-infused naps.

At the time, I was a grieving son and new father all rolled into one. The whole cycle-of-life and rite of passage embodied by the music of Moby. ‘Porcelain’ created this celestial outlet for me to stay connected to my father through music and song, as well as my newborn son.

The emotional wonder and awe that was the heart-rending year of 1999.

Now I’m the one who gets rocked to sleep by ‘Porcelain’ while I have strange dreams about fathers and sons.

Thirty-six years apart. The author with his father ,1965,  The author with his son, 2001.

Stereo Story 903

See also Nick Gadd’s story about Protection by Massive Attack.