The distinctive sound of whales crept from the boom box playing in the corner as we all downed our beers. With it, a familiar riff.
“Ah, ‘The Warmth’! I love this song,” I said, leaning back dramatically in my lawn chair.
“Wow, I’m impressed,” said my boyfriend, with his typical garish grin. I looked at him quizzically. “That’s an album track.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d acted like I only listened to Top 40 radio.
“Well, I own this album,” I said, the edge clear on my voice. He didn’t respond.
Not three months later, he left me for a girl named Brandi, fresh out of high school and much perkier in the breasts than I. Brandi, like I, frequented his shows where he played a combination of original songs and Beatles covers. I was devastated, but mostly so when he told a mutual friend that he preferred Brandi because “she loves music.”
Apparently, my endless support of his shitty music didn't count because I wasn’t groupie enough.
I grew up listening to what my parents did, which was a delightful mix of prog rock, Broadway, folk, and classic country. To me, Simon and Garfunkel, Bonnie Raitt, and Barbra Streisand defined the sounds of my childhood, along with the songs from Disney and Don Bluth movies. As I got older, I heard my fellow students…
