It's a perfect Minnesota evening sitting around a campfire at a cabin we've rented. Loons are singing as they sail across the surface of one of the many little gem-like lakes up by Crosby. A light wind keeps the smoke heading out towards the water and the bugs away. My son demands, "guitar. Ten more." He shakes his thumb in the ASL for "ten" as he also vocalizes the number. It's late though, so I say, "One more." "Four!" he demands verbally, holding up four fingers then signing more by bringing the tips of his fingers together from both hands. "Fine," I relent, then strike an A-minor chord.

"Rock and roll!" he shouts, recognizing the song as one I wrote. It's a pub song, celebrating last call. I sing, "Pour me some whiskey, I'll sing you a song / And no one is drinking alone," as he gets ready to stamp his foot in time with "When we say good night," punctuating the last three words with three stomps. Then, as I finish the chorus, "with a drink and a fight / Sure the Angels will carry us home." He signs home with a hand to his cheek, the word also ringing out in both our voices.

My son is autistic and has Down syndrome. He's 12 and what professionals call "functionally non-verbal," which means he talks all the time through words, signs, jargon (word-like sounds), body language, and behaviors. His receptive language greatly outstrips the words he expresses and we're always looking for ways to spark his interest in communicating, even as we pressure ourselves to get better at understanding. Since very early in his life, music has been a key for both of us.

It started at a holiday party in South Minneapolis a few weeks before my son was born. A group of us played music late into the night, jamming on fiddle tunes, Grateful Dead songs, and an eclectic mix of folk, rock, country, and jazz. Afterwards, my wife swore that the baby moved differently in her womb when the music was loud; especially when my bright and brassy voice was filling the room.

A year later, we found ourselves living the exhausting life of all new parents, especially new parents of a disabled child, in a Chicago suburb. We were splitting childcare as my wife went to school half-time and worked half-time, while I was chasing tenure full-time as a history professor. It would be years before we could afford childcare, so we made it work by using my flexible schedule while slowing down her pathway to graduation, relying on a patchwork of baby sitters and shuttling back and forth in our old Subaru. Our weeks were punctuated by an endless set of doctor appointments and early intervention therapy as we fumbled our way through a strange new world. Whenever I was home alone with my son and felt close to breaking, I'd pull out my guitar. He'd listen. Later he would dance by rocking back and forth on his hands and knees, a somatic response to the music, maximizing sensory input throughout his body. We both felt good.

The rise of streaming music services, especially ones that display lyrics as the song plays, has only intensified the connection between music and language for my son. A few years ago, like so many others, he got really into the musical Hamilton, playing it multiple times a day. One day at breakfast, he suddenly shouted, "Awesome, wow!" in time to the music (I recorded this video later that morning).

At mealtimes, he selects music according to a process that only he knows. Flogging Molly and Bon Jovi elicit complex choreography, the "rock and roll sign," and shouts. He signs "cry" and "home" to the chorus of the Dixie Chicks' "Travelin' Soldier." He acts out scenes and moods from the film Big Hero Six as he listens to the soundtrack, performing the complex mental link of instrumental music to remembered action on the screen. He dances, demanding that we watch him, his joy magnified by the audience.

My son likes to dance like someone is watching. Throughout all his engagement with music and movement, language percolates outward in all his modes of communication, bringing us into his world, opening new pathways for us to connect.

David Perry is a freelance journalist covering politics, history, disability, and education. He is also the Senior Academic Advisor to the History Department of the University of Minnesota. You can find him @LollardFish and thismess.net.