Inheritance

Throughout my life I have had adults, my parent's friends and distant family, telling me that I look like my Dad. As a child, I could never fully understand what they meant and for a good while I was convinced I had been adopted. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs, watching my Mum getting ready to go out with my head pressed up against the banisters, entirely unable to fathom all the parts of her and all the parts of my Dad as part of me.

As I've grown older, I've noticed that the similarities to my father extend much further than my cold and pale complexion, addictive personality and penchant for cheap cider. One thing I have always, undeniably shared with my Dad is a love for music (and I thank him for that, above everything else.)

He was a white-van man, in the least sinister sense of the phrase, and I was a trusty sidekick, riding shotgun almost always. Even to this day, the heaviness of driving in a van makes me sleepy. My Dad would unashamedly collect all of the "free" CDs in the Saturday newspaper, the ones in the little cardboard sleeves that newspaper marketers of the naughties went crazy for, and play them whilst we drove about doing usually, mostly nothing. Often I would complain that I 'just didn't want to listen to the best of UB40 one more time' and pretended to sleep until it wasn't pretend anymore. However, there was one particular occasion where the Daily Star somehow got it right (How often are you able to say that these days?) when they released their 'Hits of the Decade: 80s edition'. Through KC & The Sunshine Band and The Bangles, I was awoken to a whole decade of music that really shaped my tastes and lead me to discover one of my favourite albums of all time, 'The Best of Belinda Carlisle'. To this day I still sing loudly and obnoxiously to 'Heaven is a Place on Earth'. (Showers or karaoke or pretty much anywhere) I also, legitimately cried when I knocked the CD rack from the kitchen counter and found the only disc that had smashed was my beloved Belinda's. (Thank god for the music on the internet nowadays, am I right?)

One of our van trips took us all the way to Sheffield to see The Rolling Stones on their Bigger Bang Tour during the summer of 2006. He'd somehow convinced my Mum it was a good idea and paid too much for tickets on eBay. On the drive I tried to think of any Stones songs I might have known, but kept spouting 'Get it On' by T Rex by mistake, much to his disgust. Inching the speedometer to a number my Mum would've slaughtered him for, he told me to reply 'but I like it' every time he sand 'It's only rock and roll' whilst he was driving; that way by the time we got to the concert I'd know at least one song. He parked up down a back street in Shuffled and went to find the nearest pub open at 10am whilst I napped in high vis jackets in the back of the (hopefully) locked van. We went down the Don Valley Stadium, stood on seats in the rain, laughed at Paolo Nutini tucked away on the very corner of the stage and sang 'I know it's only rock and roll but I like it' together.

Like any parent, he taught me right from wrong (early Madonna as opposed to post-ray-of-light Madonna), he appreciated my diverse tastes (even buying my first Lady Gaga album and listening to a bootleg copy of the Hairspray soundtrack with me) and always pushed me to find new music and talent. My Dad gave me a part of me that is so, so important.

Somewhere from the complexities of childhood I've come away with a few simple memories of music and him. So, as my looks slip from the stern aesthetic of my father to the softer smiles of my mother, I try to cling to what ever parts of him are left and all of the nostalgia that comes with it. Lord knows I love a bit of nostalgia. Happy Father's Day to all the Dads trying desperately to get their kid to like the same music.