I was raised listening to light rock, pure FM radio for thirtysomethings that didn’t make it to Woodstock in the 60’s. Phil Collins was probably the King of the radio when I was a child. I can still remember all of the words to “I Can’t Dance” and “In the Air Tonight.” I have performed “Sussudio” at karaoke while tequila drunk.

When I turned 9 or 10, my father decided to clear out his vinyl collection. All of my life I was never allowed to go through my father’s records. To appease me, my parents bought me my own records (the soundtrack to The Land Before Time, Belinda Carlisle’s first solo album, The Jets album with that song “Crush” on it…), but I was never allowed to play with my father’s music and honestly the desire did not exist. What kind of a dork would listen to a band called The Beatles, anyway? Give me Madonna. Give me Cyndi Lauper, but please don’t even begin to kid yourself into thinking I would EVER want to listen to a band that named itself after some gross bugs.

Still, I couldn’t help but look over his shoulder as he started making piles out of the records. He had one pile of stuff he was planning on keeping, another that he was going to put in a garage sale and a final pile of albums he didn’t want anymore, but thought might be worth something. This pile he was going to take to a local record shop and this was the pile that I watched grow with keen interest.

The first album that struck me was The Zombie’s Odessey and Oracle. I knew nothing about The Zombies as a band, but I’d recently discovered how much I enjoyed watching zombie films. The name was speaking to me and also, the artwork was amazing. I wanted to hang it on my wall. I asked my dad if I could have it.

“Do you even know who this is?” He asked me, perhaps looking hopeful that I had, for once, listened to something he’d had to tell me about music.

I shook my head. “I want the picture for my wall.”

He shook his head. “You can’t have it if you’re going to just use it as decoration.”

I pouted and he began his sorting again. I began to get bored. He was keeping all of his Beatles stuff.

“Dad?”

He kept sorting, but finally after a few minutes he looked up at me. “Yeah?”

“I kinda would like to hear that Zombies record.”

He frowned, but it was in a teasing sort of way. I knew he was going to play it for me. I knew I’d probably hate it, but I could pretend to like it and then he’d give it to me. With an elaborate sigh, he retrieved the record from it’s pile and removed the vinyl from the sleeve. He walked across the room to the record player and I could hear the familiar hiss through the speakers as he layed the needle on the vinyl. I waited with a wrinkled nose, because all old music was old and not nearly as cool as what I could be listening to on the radio. Seriously, what WAS coming in the air tonight?

The first song, I bit my tongue throughout. My dad was bobbing his head along to it and giving me meaningful glances. I would smile in return and when he looked away I would make quick gagging faces for my own benefit. I was not going to become one of those geeks that liked old music. I was determined to hate it, even if…..even if, now the second song was playing and I liked it. Well, I would hate it. I would definitely hate it with a passion now, because I felt as though I’d been tricked. How dare this stupid old band, with half its members probably dead or ugly, make listenable music?

The album played on and I grew more and more agitated. The first side ended and my father took it off the spindle and then put the vinyl back into it’s casing. I watched him feeling anxious. I wanted to listen to the other side, but I definitely did NOT want to admit this to him or, mainly, to myself.

He held the album across his chest for a long time and finally he reached across to me and put it in my lap. “You still want it, right?”

I nodded, but I tried not to look very eager. “It was ok. Not nearly as good as The Jets, though, Dad.”

He laughed at me for a really, really long time. I could feel my skin turning red. Finally he stopped and said, “You know, if you tell me you liked it a lot, it’s not as if I’m going to tell all your school friends that you actually like your father’s old music.”

I frowned. “Old music is not cool at all, Dad.” I said this wistfully, half wishing that somehow it could be cool and that I’d be considered cool for actually liking it by my 10 year old peers.

He smiled. “It’s ok. I won’t tell anyone you like it.”

Nowadays I have to beg him to tell my friends that I didn’t just listen to Paula Abdul when I was growing up. Spaced in between all that crap, I had a love for The Zombies and eventually The Beatles and many other “old man bands.” Dad still likes to pretend he’s keeping his promise for me, but I think he’s proud that I’m finally out of the closet, music-wise and so am I.