I normally don’t touch on anything too deep around here, but I am about to reveal some very troubling information from my past. Really, really bad music choices.
It all started when I was five years old and would lock myself in our bathroom where the acoustics were best. I would take my handy-dandy tape recorder and belt out “The Way We Were”, and my childhood theme song, “Rhinestone Cowboy”. Also, whenever Donny and Marie were on you couldn’t peel me away from the television.
When I was seven, I got an 8-track player. One with a shoulder strap so I could walk down the street, looking cool, while The Village People, Olivia Newton-John, and The Bee Gees blasted from the speaker.
After that, I moved on to Journey, Loverboy, Prince, and Pat Benatar. Wait. I was Pat Benatar. Then Night Ranger, Van Halen, and Bon Jovi.
In high school, I was all over the place. I listened to pop music, like U2, but obscure bands played on the sound-system at my very contemporary, retail sales job and I liked that music too.
This is also when I developed my love for Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, and what my best friend refers to as “hippie music”. My husband calls this my tree-hugger period. Whatever, dude. If that’s the case, I will forever be hugging trees. Trees are groovy and Stephen Stills rules.
My husband is also a Zeppelin fan and he’s more than fond of Metallica, my son likes classical music, and my daughter gets her kicks from country. We have learned to get along. We have learned to appreciate each other’s music. Well, except for my daughter’s taste in country tunes. Unless, of course, it’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.”