I have always viewed people’s music habits as a sort of indirect personal statement. It’s not necessarily based on the type of music they listen to (hey, I’m not here to judge), but rather how they consume it—how much of their overall life relates to music? Do they choose to spend their money and time at concerts? Do they only like to listen when they’re in the car? How many of their memories are linked to music? What does this say about them as an individual?
If I apply this “test” to my dad, I’d say the results are clear (and something I’ve suspected for a very long time): My dad is infinitely cooler than I will ever be, and I have come to terms with this.
Growing up, I collected tales of his life experiences like little treasures. I would envision a young, hip version of him (sans the fashionable short-shorts of the ’80s because, ew) hitchhiking across state lines and traveling the world, always adventuring and adding stories to his arsenal. Of course, he grew up in a different era with a different set of rules, but I still admired his free spirit.
Most of his stories seem to include some sort of musical facet or be about shows he’s seen, friends he has met through concerts, funny stories behind this album or that concert tee and his hilarious opinions on various modern aspects of the industry (“In my next life I could get paid thousands of dollars to yell ‘yeah’ and ‘what’ in the background of rap songs”).
Music is so intricately woven through his being, and mine, that it becomes nearly impossible to extract. His litany of experiences has clearly shaped his worldview, and hearing about these blasts from the past really clues me into the person my father was before he was just “Dad.”
For example, my dad, summer and the Allman Brothers Band will always be synonymous in my mind. I remember being a shy child sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, letting the strains of “Blue Sky” or “Whippin’ Post” wash over my young ears and feeling so delightfully grown up. It felt like I’d finally been let into a cool adult club where there was more to life than my Pokemon cassette tape; this was real life and it began my journey of wanting to know more about my dad as a person.
Naturally, I was unsurprised last summer when I found the autobiography of Gregg Allman on my dad’s office desk. I figured I’d see what all the fuss was about, and my dad found me engrossed in the book several hours later.
Over dinner, I mentioned in passing how my mind was blown when Allman talked about the 600,000 people packed into the Watkins Glen Summer Jam 1973 in New York.
My dad casually dropped the information that he had been at that festival as a 20 year old. He’d gotten separated from his friends early on in the confusion of the crowd and had a blast wandering around all day, taking in the sounds of The Grateful Dead and, of course, The Allman Brothers.
I felt like a paleontologist uncovering the remains of some huge discovery. I didn’t know what it was exactly, but I spent the rest of the night interrogating my dad about gems from his past of which I had been previously unaware.
This is just one tiny pixel in the big picture: Music as cultural capital can sing volumes about where people have come from and why they are what they are. It can outline their choices and experiences; it can demonstrate their idea of happiness; it can help you see the world through their eyes.
I’d urge every one of you to uncover these little anecdotes and experiences. Not necessarily with a parent, but anyone, really. Music can put an entirely new spin on an otherwise run-of-the-mill conversation, and can help you delve to the core of a person.
That being said, one day last year, my dad came home with a plastic LMFAO bracelet and Red Foo glasses, loudly and proudly proclaiming he can’t stop party rockin’ all the time. I chose not to read too deeply into that one. Sometimes, music is also just a catchy beat or a chance to break out your rusty and non-existent (come on, Dad, we’re related) dance moves.
Share your parent-inspired tunes with Marina at mkoliver@wisc.edu.
