Backseat to the Future
Graphic by Téa Sklar
My mother raised my sister and I as if all media had ended in 1993. Most pieces of media I grew up consuming depicted people and problems that were far closer to those in the Gen X bracket than my own. You may be thinking that you had a similar experience, but I assure you, you didn’t. Yes, your parents may have showed you a Rocky movie once when you were 8 and you fell asleep halfway through. Have you seen all 6?
As I’ve gotten older, I have found that my typical media diet as a child was a little different than others. This media was the main cultural framework through which I viewed the world and everyone else in it. However, none of this was a more prevalent fixation in my life than music.
When I was a kid, nothing really affected me like music did. It had this strange ability to bypass the defenses a child is supposed to have: to resist, to be bored, to be suspicious that an adult is trying to teach you something. The songs from my mother’s iPod (yes, I am what the kids call “unc”) permeated deep into my neural pathways and simply never left. I was begrudgingly stuck with them now, despite my efforts to prevent what no little kid ever wants to admit: that my mother had good taste.
Whether it was the seminal record Rumors by Fleetwood Mac or the somewhat-forgotten but sincerely wonderful alt-rock classic New Miserable Experiences by Gin Blossoms, I subconsciously etched these words and melodies in my bones. My mother had this gift, though I believe unintentional, for selecting music that was emotionally true above all else. These were just songs she liked, heard on the radio as they came out. I’m sure she did not mean to have this effect on me in this particular way.
Some of it I embraced fully at the time, some not so much. There were evergreens I always enjoyed, like Billy Joel (a deep dive on his discography past “Piano Man” is well worth it, I promise). But many of these tunes did not gain the appreciation they deserved from me until I was able to form more concrete thoughts about the world around me. It was not until I got older, into my mid-to-late teens, when I revisited all this stuff with an approach of joy and discovery rather than an eye-roll and a plea for more Hannah Montana and less U2.
Growing up fluent in a musical language that most of my peers had never learned turned out to be less of a complete social handicap and more of a superpower I didn’t know I had. You would think my childhood would make it difficult to converse with my generation when it comes to our favorite pop culture. And to an extent, you’d be correct. I do have many moments where I roll my eyes when someone doesn’t want to talk with me endlessly about Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen, though I can’t fault them really, they didn’t have a cool mom. Sucks for them!
But actually, my early scholarly education of music at an early age only made me even more passionate about what was coming next. That passion has since found a direction in my intent to pursue a career in music law, specifically in copyright, where the business of protecting art intersects with the art itself. If music shaped the way I understand the world, it only makes sense that I'd want to spend my career making sure the people who make it are protected. It’s the least I can do for them for all they have given me.
But caring this much about something, about anything, is beginning to feel countercultural.
One thing this generation lacks and that I dislike is the ability to find joy in earnestness. We often view pure excitement as “cringe” and treat sincerity as something to be apologized for rather than celebrated. I dislike this idea because loving something loudly without irony is one of the few ways we feel connected to anything at all. Not to say I am immune to this, in fact if you asked anyone who knew me personally, they would be hard-pressed to tell you the last time they saw me genuinely enthusiastic. However, music is the one place I could never fake indifference. I think there is something deeply embarrassing and necessary about that. My mother taught me this by accident, which is maybe the best way to learn about anything. It really is never the life lessons you plan out that stick, right?
So to you, dear reader, I implore you to remember that every now and then, parents know what they're talking about. I know, send the pitchforks in. Kick and scream all you’d like, roll your eyes at yet another Eagles deep cut, but then you’ll suddenly find yourself singing as you're mopping your floors.
And when that moment happens, just let it.
The purpose of this piece, other than it being my last word for this brilliant magazine, is to make the case for caring deeply, for letting yourself love something without embarrassment. The world of the music you grew up with is knocking all the time, everywhere you go.
I hope you let it in.