Dad steps up to the microphone as the opening notes of Quando, Quando, Quando rings across the working man’s club in Blackburn. I’m 10 years old, cheering with the crowd as Dad’s rich voice belts the chorus. Dad’s known as the ‘Songaminute Man’ because of his repertoire of songs, selling out venues in the 1960s and now performing at clubs and pubs after work at the factory. It’s just the three of us – me, Mum and Dad – at home, where 1920s show tunes and Frank Sinatra ballads form the soundtrack to my childhood and teen years.
But then Dad gets older and starts forgetting things. He gets angry out of nowhere and never plays his records any more. The music stops.
It was 2012 when we first noticed something was wrong. I’d been living in South Africa briefly and Mum had mentioned that Dad, then aged 75, had been getting forgetful. I didn’t think too much of it, but when I came back to the UK, I saw he’d used his prized (and pricey) microphone wires to tie up plants in the garden. Dad was always kind and quirky, never aggressive, but he’d started losing his temper regularly.
I booked him a GP appointment but, as Dad didn’t have an outburst while there, the doctor said he was fine. He wasn’t. Travelling to Blackburn from London at weekends, I watched Dad getting progressively confused and his anger outbursts were escalating. I became worried about leaving Mum and, after a particularly stressful day, we went to the doctor ourselves. Mum burst into tears as she described what had been happening with Dad.
After numerous appointments and tests over the following year, it was confirmed that Dad had Alzheimer’s disease, the most common cause of dementia. Dad was given medication, but it only seemed to increase his aggression, which was a symptom of the dementia.
I stayed every weekend to help Mum, but we felt completely on our own. Dad would be up at all hours, sometimes confused about who I was and trying to attack me. I was exhausted, balancing my job in digital marketing with the stress of helping my parents miles away.
I was at rock bottom when I spotted a leaflet for a dementia helpline. The woman on the phone listened as I sobbed and vented my concerns. She explained Dad’s outbursts were fuelled by fear and frustration as dementia took hold. She also told me that, if Dad could understand what I was doing for him and Mum, he’d be proud of me. It was what I needed to hear, and I realised that Dad needed reassurance and to feel safe.
Around the same time, a friend suggested bringing Dad to an open mic night. It was difficult to take him out, but we managed to get him along. I watched as Dad stepped confidently behind the mic and started to sing. I couldn’t believe it – he was his old self again. The stage was his safe space: Dad knew who he was when he performed and, in that moment, wasn’t afraid.
From then on, whenever Dad got overwhelmed or lost his temper, I’d drive him around and sing with him. Volare, Mack The Knife, On The Street Where You Live... The music wasn’t reversing his dementia, but in those moments, it was as if it disappeared. I began sharing videos of our journeys on Facebook with a link to donate to the Alzheimer’s Society, the charity behind the dementia helpline. I also moved in with my parents full time in 2016. My job let me work remotely, and not having a partner or children made it easier, but it was still a huge decision.
Gradually, more and more people were watching our ‘carpool karaoke’ videos. That July, £10,000 was donated in one day, climbing to a total of more than £150,000 to date. I thought the hype would be over in a week, but it blew up. A US website posted the video, bringing millions of views and calls from media across the world. At first, the attention panicked me. I worried people online would write terrible comments or misjudge us, but the vast majority were overwhelmingly supportive. Dad was even asked to come on live TV, but I was very protective. While it might be great for viewing figures if he had an outburst on air, I couldn’t bear him being ridiculed. One thing I couldn’t turn down, however, was a charity single.
Taking Dad to London to record was stressful, but I knew he’d be okay when he was in front of the microphone. It was surreal seeing a full orchestra lined up for my dad, and he came to life as he sang You Make Me Feel So Young. There was so much demand after the single’s release that we crowd-sourced the funds for a full album.
Because Dad’s so much more than his illness, I wrote a book about his life to show people the real him, which I’m re-releasing this year with an extra chapter. Sony has even made a Japanese film set in Tokyo and inspired by our story.
Dad’s still living at home, looked after by Mum and me, with help from carers. He can’t do much independently and doesn’t make much sense when he talks, but he’s happy and calmer now. We play his music and, occasionally, he’ll stand and belt out a note theatrically. He might not be in tune, but we can still see the showman shining through. Being a carer is hard, and you can feel like you’re missing out when you compare yourself with people on social media while you’re spoon-feeding trifle. But caring for Dad is just a part of life that will change in the future, and I’ll miss it greatly. I wouldn’t change where I am now.
Whenever I’m down, I think back to the day I accepted a Pride Of Britain award on Dad’s behalf in 2016. That morning, he’d shouted and pushed me out of the house. I knew he didn’t mean it, but it was heartbreaking. Then, on the train to the event, I got a call from Mum. Dad wanted to talk to me. “I get confused but I’m not angry at you. I thought you were someone else,” Dad said. Later that night, I met celebrities including Sir Cliff Richard and Dame Joan Collins. But none of that compared with that moment on the train when Dad told me, “I’m proud of you.”
The Songs That Saved Us: My Dad, Dementia And Me (HarperCollins) by Simon McDermott is out 5 June.
