When I was little,
I called my father’s playlist “The Jukebox”,
packed with thousands of songs
I identified solely by their sounds.
There are pictures of my younger-self wearing band t-shirts,
The Clash, Led Zeppelin, and Queen, to name a few,
chosen by the taste of my parents,
worn reluctantly based on colors that pleased my eye.
I saw music as a simple form of entertainment,
sometimes even background noise
that I would endure for my parents’ sake,
as they played their favorites on repeat.
I recently made my own playlist,
simply titled “childhood songs”,
composed of nostalgic songs that I vividly recall
for their rhythms and beats.
As I listen to this playlist now,
I have a profound realization:
My parents have instilled maturity in me from my birth,
through the artists that did the same for them.
Some of the contents on “childhood songs”
are rather melancholy and deep -
Amy Winehouse, Joy Division, The Smiths -
tragic tales of life and death that transcend time.
Others are simply bizarre, but acknowledged for their genius -
Björk, Depeche Mode, Marilyn Manson
posing as early introductions
to radical art forms.
Perhaps the largest revelation,
was when artists were “discovered” by myself
years later, a newfound appreciation
blossoming to its fullest potential.
I now listen to my parents’ favorite musicians
with a more mature perspective.
I can now appreciate the lyrics, the instrumentals,
the artists themselves, as they deserve to be.
And as a young adult,
I can bond with my parents
over what we all hold most valuable:
the power of a great song.