Written By David Gomez
In this column, I don’t want to write about politics, the problems that weigh on the world, or the endless issues that so often divide people into ideological sides. Today, I would rather write about art—specifically, about music.
My contact with music as a child was quite limited. My parents were not particularly enthusiastic about it. They would put on music only during very special family gatherings or in specific circumstances. And yet, in that limited exposure, I discovered moments that became unforgettable.
One of the clearest and most vivid memories I carry is of my grandparents dancing. Sometimes it was a tango, sometimes a classic Peruvian waltz, and sometimes a joyful salsa. I remember the laughter, the swaying hips moving in zigzagging patterns, and the music pounding in my ears as if it were a kind of hypnosis. My first conception of music was shaped by this almost anthropological setting: a balance between celebration, popular tradition, and family connection.
As time passed, especially during my teenage years, I encountered other genres. Rock and pop began to enter my life. Yet I was always drawn to music with strong lyrics and thoughtful melodies. I often listened to traditional musicians from the 1950s and 60s in Peru. Then one day I heard Edith Piaf. I still remember that moment perfectly. I was captivated by her diction in a French that was overwhelming and unfamiliar. I couldn’t understand a single word of what she was saying, but the music and her voice held me spellbound. They still do to this day.
Another important memory of my relationship with music comes from the church. As some of you may know, I am Catholic, raised in rigorous Catholic schools. Music was always part of mass and catechism gatherings. Some priests had a particular affection for Gregorian chant: those deep, resonant voices that I continue to admire. And, of course, instruments and choirs had an essential role. The guitar and piano were the most commonly used, but regardless of the instrument, music elevated every service.
Recently, after reading Carol Small’s three-part series on the churches of Middlesex Centre in previous editions, I found myself reflecting on the value of spirituality, sacred spaces, and music. It is almost impossible to imagine a mass or service without music. It does more than fill a silence; it amplifies the sermon’s depth and connects us spiritually to faith.
That reflection led me to think about the organ—grand, ancient, and imposing. Its sound is both beautiful and haunting, a roar carried through pipes that stretch into domes and church ceilings. A few months ago, I met an extraordinary pianist who reminded me why these instruments matter so much. While visiting Rowntree Memorial United Church, I met its young music director, Ryan Baxter. He was kind enough to share a bit about his work and academic journey. Originally from Thorold, Ryan is a candidate in the Doctor of Musical Arts program at Western University’s Don Wright Faculty of Music, studying solo piano performance.
I have since had the chance to hear him play in several recitals, and his performances have rekindled in me a long-standing love for classical music. I find myself returning to Schumann, Chopin, Vivaldi, and Ravel—names I had nearly forgotten, but whose melodies now feel fresh and alive once more.
This is why I encourage you to value the work of musicians like Ryan and so many others who bring music into churches and community spaces. Their dedication is not only about skill or practice—it is about creating experiences that stay with us. Music in these sacred places has the power to bring us back to happy times, to help us dream of better ones, or even to offer a fleeting touch of the divine.
For me, music has always been a thread connecting family, culture, faith, and memory. Whether it was the laughter of my grandparents’ dancing, the deep echo of Gregorian chant, or the trembling yet powerful voice of Edith Piaf, music has never failed to move me. Perhaps that is why it continues to be one of the purest forms of art we have: capable of uniting us without words, and reminding us that, at least for a few notes, we all belong to the same melody.
