I picked up the book in the image — a book I had been anticipating for weeks — and was crying by page 2: recognizing elements of both myself and my son in the first wonderful description of John’s autistic offspring James (the principal character); then, a few pages later, in John himself — although, as I wrote to my son, “the tables are turned with us, I think: me, the autistic father; you, the mega-talented [one]”. Autism can be, and frequently is, a family trait: inherited — at least partially, in my case, I am pretty sure — from my amazing dad. How much of it I have passed on myself I am not at all sure. Plus… it really doesn’t matter. What I do know is that my son truly is multi-gifted, musically (and technically): probably with the encouragement of a whole bucketful of helpful genes from my erstwhile concert-pianist mum, and a few random droplets from me.
And so is James: incredibly talented! (And, like my son, plays the bass southpaw, despite being right-handed.) Many people who are autistic have a ‘superpower’ (or defiantly and knowingly claim that autism itself is their superpower): and his includes in-depth knowledge of huge swathes of rock/pop music; the ability to perform that music to a very high standard indeed, singing, or playing different instruments; as well as absolute, or perfect, pitch.
James, though, struggles to communicate: he “has experiences that he cannot express in words”.
But that gap between experience and language is surely familiar to all of us. It is what music bridges. So, when he and I listen to songs, or play them, or lose ourselves in something amazing… we meet in the intersection between us, defined by the ineffable and magical, and what music ultimately is: a perfect soundtrack to life, and all its joy, sadness, tragedy and wonder.
The book charts how John (and Ginny, his partner) and James (and Rosa, his sister) meet the challenges the latter’s autism presents as he grows up to become a lanky teenager: and the above passage — at the end of the introduction — is central to everything (of course). As an expression of this, the book’s main body consists of ten chapters, each headed by the title of a song key to its understanding — songs which sometimes (having created a playlist of them) almost become characters themselves.
Another device shedding light on the book is a Substack column by John: that led up to the book’s launch, today (Thursday); and which adds depth by discussing some of the book’s issues in greater detail, or from a different perspective. It was in response to one of these — discussing music’s powers — that I wrote the following comment. [If you don’t know me, or anything about me, then this is as good an introduction as any. It also explains, I hope, why the book is so important to me.]
I am now in my early sixties; was diagnosed with Asperger’s in my late forties; and spent the first nearly thirty years of life doing exactly this… — communicating with and through music, almost daily. I was lucky to do this through a cathedral choir; local music society; and then my own choirs: and was mostly very happy (except when something like Elgar’s Violin Concerto or Japan’s Ghosts tore my heart out, and I cried for reasons other people didn’t quite understand; and would sometimes make fun of…).
But the real world beckoned: and for twenty years or so, first employment, then a series of serious motor accidents (which rendered me physically disabled), forced me to mask more, and for longer, than I ever had done. Eventually, I started a blog, and was asked by a local professional chamber orchestra to be their ‘writer in reticence’: interviewing soloists and composers, writing programme notes, etc..
I was surprised (but probably shouldn’t have been) by just how many neurodivergent people are professional musicians (some extremely famous): but, for two years or so, deeply re-immersed in music, and surrounded by those who truly ‘got’ me, and with whom I could be myself, I was the happiest I think I have ever been… — apart from at the birth of my son: now a bassist who produces and mixes his band’s reasonably successful CDs… — communicating with and through music in a way, and with an intensity, I did not know possible.
Even though that period is over, it stays with/within me, having taught me so much, so very quickly, about myself. I have therefore remained true to my natural, autistic, self; and vowed never to let go of the music again (despite my congenital hearing loss), nor those lessons.
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This is such an intensely personal book: and a great deal of it catalogues the battles that John and Ginny had to fight (not always winning) in getting the right care for James, the funding for the right care, the right education… — and on and on it goes. And yet music is there throughout: gradually, gently, sometimes forcibly, working its magic. (There is no other word.)
The hushed soliloquys in which John details his own increasing childhood love of music — particularly of The Beatles — and increasingly recognizes its powers over him — are remarkably beautiful and powerful; as are his intense examinations of himself as parent, as partner: questioning in detail his contribution to James’ autistic genes, or second-guessing his beliefs and values. These, to me, come together in their honesty and weight to form one of the strongest, most thoughtful and fascinating of the many strands weaving their way across every page: the autobiographical glue binding the book together; as well as the foundation on which the other narratives are built — adding a great deal of strength, as well as depth.
That John was working his magic as one of the greatest social and political journalists the Guardian has ever employed throughout most of these struggles, is a miracle itself; but is a good demonstration of his sensibilities, as well as his talent… — both of which also pull this book together beautifully in frequently understated tones. His consciousness of Ginny’s resulting, necessary entrapment as James’ autism becomes apparent also speaks volumes.
The strength and resilience they build — as they must: there is no other option for them — are amazing, as they surmount challenging mountains of ever-increasing height and difficulty to try and give (or procure) James his best possible life. No matter how many heart-rending trials James’ complex needs present; no matter how much petty, penny-pinching bureaucracy, or worse — and this is not a book to skimp the bleak, sometimes political nastiness they regularly face in the outside world, the “real world” — there is always love and music (plus stupendously moving moments of silence: both positive and negative) in such abundance at home, and throughout the family (and this includes Rosa, James’ clever and characterful younger sister and drummer), that it is almost impossible not to become emotionally involved with them all.
I cry frequently — often angrily at the frustrations they meet; sometimes in self-recognition; but mostly in joy and, yes, amazement — especially at James’ astonishing musical ability: Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star launching me towards my box of arm’s-reach tissues as if it were a musical firework conjured up by Mozart, and aimed straight at my heart!
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My partner works with young children and their families; I have spent the last twenty years or so greedily devouring papers and books on autism as it manifests from birth to old age (a late diagnosis will do that to you — as will, as John describes, in the perfect amount of detail, an early diagnosis: with an intensity that mirrored mine, but which still left me open-mouthed at the realization of the huge strength and infinite depth of parental love floating just under the surface of every sentence) — and yet some of these battles still left me shocked.
In so many ways, there is nothing quite as disturbing as the narrative describing James’ initial diagnosis — especially the interminable process of getting it formalized (which is still awful when you are forty-something: but is necessary for any help that may follow) — the self-doubt, the huge number of unknowns, the fears, the endless number of sometimes seemingly pointless appointments, and the way all this eats away at John’s and Ginny’s lives before suddenly being left on their own, no wiser (apart from their thorough self-education): staring into an abyss of extreme emotional (and financial) need.
Nor does any of this go away, of course.
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John tells their story beautifully: with a huge amount of heart; and with a clarity I have long associated with his work for the Guardian. There are no gimmicks; and the need to prime different readers in the necessary medical and scientific language, Special Educational Needs (SEN) terminology, and everything else wrapped around young children with autism, are deftly dealt with. His previous career as a music reviewer also plays a part: his descriptions and explanations of all things related and involved — especially music’s own technical foundations — are lucid and involving: frequently encouraging this reader to reach for his headphones, or sit at the piano for a few moments. Building on all of this, the discoveries he makes — particularly around music as experienced by those with autism (especially James, of course) — are astonishingly insightful; and he often comes to conclusions of much greater value and utility than those found in the scientific literature.
Additionally, there is no claim that the parental decisions made around James’ upbringing are the correct ones — everything stems from John and Ginny’s unconditional love of and for him, and the expansive understanding they build over the years. They do their very best for him (as most parents do); show what can be achieved, what hurdles (often topped with rolls of barbed wire) they face; appreciate their achievements; and explain the realities… but never once even approach any sort of boastfulness about their family’s successes — and it is this almost unassuming approach that drives the book on so engagingly.
But this is not just about James: we want other kids to know about autism, and difference, and the plain fact that he is as full of fascination and joy and basic human worth as anyone else.
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Although this is just one account — as Stephen Shore said “If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person” — I can see how the book could be educative for parents in similar situations; plus it is a unique and wonderful, sweeping, forensically-detailed UK-based case study. Its greatest value really lies, though, I think, in enlightening the majority of people (not just those “kids”) — drawn in by John’s reputation and incredibly engaging journalistic skills — who are unaware of the unending complexities of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). Overall, though, it is an extremely gripping developmental story (one that has only just begun), extremely well-told: one with love and music in parallel — indeed, a love for and of music and its associated magic — at its core.
However, music is not the answer to everything (although sometimes it feels like it is; and I have frequent moments wishing it was): but I am sure it helps people in many more situations than it worsens — as John repeatedly demonstrates. This is therefore as much a biography as it is a manifesto for not only the power of music, but and ode to its many differing strengths. That it is obviously a large part of what works for, and helps, James, in some ways is good fortune (and others, pure shining talent): but you only need to watch a toddler recognizing its favourite theme tune, or singing along to a nursery rhyme in the car, to realize that it has a great deal of meaning for most. Its availability in schools as a subject to learn may be ending, though… — something that obviously fills John with as much dread as it does me.
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Although I know a great deal about music, about autism, about the connections, about the hit-and-miss education, about the parental worries as neurodivergent children like James turn into adults with learning needs, this book had me hooked from those opening pages to the last. It has so much integrity — whether discussing the positive or the negative — and tells a fascinating story brilliantly. It also keeps you on the edge of your seat.
I found the last chapter immensely hard to get through. It unzipped a huge load of devastating, complicated emotions from my chest: both the choice of music that John pulls to the fore once more, plus the fact the book was ending. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to watch James burst into glorious song, surrounded by family and friends, for so much longer.
Even when I’d finally managed to close it, I struggled to put it down: tears cascading down my face and onto my shirt. As if the best music in the world suddenly ended.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it…
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