Middle (Age) Of The Road

Something has happened. There was a shift at some point in the last few years. A gradual change in my own personal aural landscape. I’ve always had a pretty varied taste in music - definitely not a taste in music you could describe as “cool” as the 90s Gloria Estefan phase will attest - but, aside from my love of 60s soul, 70s funk and a healthy dose of disco, I’ve generally veered more towards the rock / indie side as the default music of choice. Sure, I’ve kind of drifted away from the music side of things over the last few years, given that I don’t spend any way near as much time hanging around with musician-style mates as I used to but I thought I was probably still mainly in the rock / indie side.

So, I was somewhat surprised when not only did Spotify start playing Jesus He Knows Me by Genesis on my daily mix but I also found myself enjoying it. I like to think of this as the Partridgisation of my musical in honour of North Norfolk Digital’s finest DJ. Oh, I used to enjoy certain types of middle-of-the-road songs with a sense of ironic detachment which is pretty much the default setting from the 20s into the 30s but, as I gallop down Forty Something Highway, I’m finding that the irony is dropping away and the enjoyment is becoming fairly genuine.

It was highlighted recently when, during my viewing of the second season of Stranger Things, it came to a scene in which Chief Hopper rifles through his record collection. After flicking past Supertramp (which prompted a bit of, “ooh, I should listen to them”), he settles on You Don’t Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce and, after the brief segment of it, I definitely found myself thinking, “Ah, I could’ve listened to the rest of that.”

The real clincher, though, was the point where Spotify suggested me a playlist composed of 10cc, ELO, Chicago, Doobie Brothers, America, Deep Purple, Blood, Sweat & Tears and Clapton. I was, as we’ve established above, pretty much enjoying the whole selection with no trace of any irony. It then hit me - this was an almost exact recreation of The Father’s record collection*. I had at some point, musically speaking, become my father.

Is there some sort of genetic switch? Does a certain amount of time pass until the body reaches a certain point where it releases some sort of enzyme that engages a more comfortable musical taste? Whatever it is, I have two choices:- fight it tooth and claw or lean into with pipe and slippers.

Somebody pass me a copy of No Jacket Required...


* I was going to explain what records were but hipsters love their vinyl these days.