soopastryheart

Ki, Honie, and I got real lucky in that my dad has always been a music aficionado. And for a man who forgets if he’s checked the mail or not on a daily basis, he can recollect his favorite music with impressive detail: the year a song was a hit, the most popular bands, the most obscure one-hit-wonders. After reciting the lyrics of a song he hasn’t heard in twenty years, he can spit out the singer in a Eureka moment. He’s told us about his first introduction to American music, hearing Patti Page and The Platters on a tiny radio, falling in love with it immediately. As a young man, he spent every spare cent he could mangle up to buy records, compassing a collection that if he had kept today, could make any vintage-loving hipster jealous.

He not only listened to the music, but lived within the times; dressed like a Beatle (shaggy bowl-cut and all), grew a fro during the days of ABBA and donned a matching, all-denim bell-bottom suit with the BeeGees (yes, there’s photographic evidence). There was a long period in his life where his hair touched his shoulders and a mustache that could give Freddie Mercury’s a run for his money. There’s an old passport photo where he was channeling his inner Lionel Richie so devoutly, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it accidentally caught on fire.

There’s an entire photo album chronicling the changes in popular music, evidenced by the ever-adaptive, correlating fashion choices. And even when we’re pulling our faces at his suede-collar jackets and busy face palming at his copies of Michael Bolton and Wham!, he looks over them fondly, without a morsel of regret or shame. I’ve asked him what his most embarrassing CD is and he only frowned, saying, “I don’t own any of those. I’ve never owned bad music.”

I’ve researched and revisited my roots; the days when CCR, Earth, Wind & Fire, and James Taylor were on constant rotation. With my dad as the DJ, Ki and I grew up appreciating the Everly Brothers, the Mamas and the Papas, Glen Campbell, the Eagles, even Rod Stewart. It’s because of my dad and his eclectic taste that Honie knows who Chubby Checker or Three Dog Night or Carly Simon is. Variety is the reason Honie knows the words to “Waterloo” and “Tennessee Waltz” just as well as “Party in the USA” and “Use Somebody.” Do you know how many 12-year-olds know who Ann Margaret is?

Stashed somewhere are a small collection of my own CD’s, some I hope never see the light of day (I kid you not, there’s a copy of Aqua somewhere in this house). I’ll tell you right now that I was thirteen when boyband fever took over the world, and I was not immune to their All-American looks, provocative choreography, and songs about never breaking my heart. Yes, I screamed and jumped like a rabid moron at the concerts, and spent a lot of time plotting out the details of the chance meeting where I’d become their muse (because boybands were sensitive, and looked past the training bra, braces, and glasses that took up half my face).

When they started to lose their appeal (nothing shatters the illusion more than when the boys have five o’clock shadows, lose their cornrows, and trade in their matching jumpsuits for sensible loafers), I entered the consciously-aware and painfully ironic stage of my life, listening to an assload of punk rock while looking like a page out of the J. Crew catalog. I had the welcome-to-the-OC-biatch emo phase (let’s just say, there was a lot of Dashboard Confessional happening in my life) for the better part of my late high school years. I dipped my toes in the Lilith Fair crowd, and had a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it stint with techno. I dabbled in country, experimented with indie rock, and was really, really into Notorious B.I.G. for a good long while (you haven’t seen gangster until you hear a 90-lb Asian girl spit out “Big Poppa” in her Abercrombies).

I don’t know where and when it happened, but somewhere along all the different wigs I tried on, I realized I didn’t have to stick with just one. I could combine Dixie Chicks, The Temptations, and Jay-Z into one playlist. Tchaikovsky and the soundtrack to Hairspray didn’t have to avoid each other. Listening to a lot of Damien Rice and Ray Lamontagne didn’t have to have a greater reason than being good study music. Mos Def could be just as poetic as Debussy, Lady Gaga was made for getting ready for a night out, and on a rainy afternoon at a coffee shop, they didn’t call it Norah Jones-ing for nothing. Sometimes, Rage Against the Machine blaring in your ears is just what you need for that last quarter-mile uphill. Jackson 5 is age-proof, and it’s almost never a bad time for Otis Redding.

So as painful as it is to admit that I have a Chumbawumba CD stashed somewhere, I’m glad it is, to remind me of who I was, and how far I’ve evolved. Those posters that I can’t bring myself to throw away are a reminder of a time when I didn’t feel any restrictions, when daydreams never seemed like a waste of time. There are things you outgrow, like Rainbow Brite, tweezer-happy eyebrows, and Cosmopolitan (to my credit, I never once took those Make-Yourself-Irresistible articles seriously), but you keep them with you, tucked away on the top shelf for whenever you feel like traveling down nostalgia lane. There was a time I rocked the lowest of low-riding jeans (I’m talking how-are-you-wearing-underwear low) to school dances, where I would do my best to get my groove-thang on to Ginuwine and Nelly. Songs by Jodeci and Savage Garden became anthems for those precocious enough to have boyfriends and girlfriends, while the rest of us patiently waited our turns for when we could – however briefly- understand the meaning of “Truly, Madly, Deeply”, the best way a 14-year-old knew how.

If my dad’s collection is any proof at all, music can transcend genres, cohabit peacefully and beautifully. Music should be celebrated with the memories it’s associated with, not oppressed by the fear of embarrassment. And if my dad is unashamed of his Styx collection, who am I to be hiding my copy of Big Willie Style? To my dad and to me, music is like a scar (but without the skin deformation); they are reminders of the moments and stages of our lives that may or may not have been monumental, but exceptional in their contributions to our character. They may cause momentary discomfort and embarrassment, but they let you reminisce about a time when you were just as bit careless as you were carefree, a time when looking back now, weren’t nearly as bad as you thought them to be.

That’s why I hold my tongue when Honie mentions Drake or Owl City or some homeless-looking chick who spells her name with a $. She will build her own musical repertoire, one that will cause her to cringe at a point in her life. She will collect and trade the tracks in her life as often as required by her burgeoning personality. She’ll be influenced by her friends, her rebellion, and her permanent role as a daddy’s girl. And like my dad’s classical collection, there will be a multitude of volumes, versions, and special editions.

When it comes to the soundtrack of our lives, we’re constantly adding and deleting. But we need to do it without a sense of irony, without contemplation, without apology, without pretentiousness, without anyone’s approval but our own. We’re entitled to that – to add a little disco, a little rock, a little power ballad whenever we see fit. Just get jiggy wit it.

Na-na-na-na-na-nana-na.