Status: fertig.
Hero
1/1
I’ve barely stepped foot in the door when it starts. My dad looks at me and says, “Who’s this playing? I’ll give you till the lyrics come in.”
We wait a few beats, all the while my dad’s looking at me with the giddy anticipation he always has during one of his quizzes.
Jim Morrison’s voice drifts out of the speakers and I reply confidently, “The Doors.”
His face lights up as he looks to my sister, “See? I told you she’d know.”
It’s tradition, these quizzes. He’s been posing these questions to me for more than four years, and I still get them wrong half the time. I know he’ll probably be asking me them until I’m always right. My sister couldn’t care less about The Doors, Metallica, The Beatles or anyone who made music before the year two thousand. She’s always disliked mine and dad’s game.
Dad and I have spent hours arguing about music and its meanings, and which artists’ music has shaped the way we approach genre. He believes that nothing the newer artists are doing is any different than his older stuff, that all they’re doing is re-arranging the chords of older bands. I say that even the act of moving the chord changes is new, because if they haven’t been arranged like that before, so they’re something new. Really, one of the only things we agree on is volume. Music is meant to be loud. Earth-shatteringly loud.
I’ve been brought up on loud music, from early on. My parents swear that I wouldn’t sleep without it when I was small, that I could be bawling and all they’d have to do is put me in the swing and turn up the volume.
My dad’s my hero. Plain and simple. I used to think he was like this incredibly unbreakable guy, like most kids think of their parents, but really, that’s not what makes him my hero. What makes him my hero is that he’s always there for me, but he made me realize that everyone needs someone to be there for them. So I’m there for him when he needs me.
We wait a few beats, all the while my dad’s looking at me with the giddy anticipation he always has during one of his quizzes.
Jim Morrison’s voice drifts out of the speakers and I reply confidently, “The Doors.”
His face lights up as he looks to my sister, “See? I told you she’d know.”
It’s tradition, these quizzes. He’s been posing these questions to me for more than four years, and I still get them wrong half the time. I know he’ll probably be asking me them until I’m always right. My sister couldn’t care less about The Doors, Metallica, The Beatles or anyone who made music before the year two thousand. She’s always disliked mine and dad’s game.
Dad and I have spent hours arguing about music and its meanings, and which artists’ music has shaped the way we approach genre. He believes that nothing the newer artists are doing is any different than his older stuff, that all they’re doing is re-arranging the chords of older bands. I say that even the act of moving the chord changes is new, because if they haven’t been arranged like that before, so they’re something new. Really, one of the only things we agree on is volume. Music is meant to be loud. Earth-shatteringly loud.
I’ve been brought up on loud music, from early on. My parents swear that I wouldn’t sleep without it when I was small, that I could be bawling and all they’d have to do is put me in the swing and turn up the volume.
My dad’s my hero. Plain and simple. I used to think he was like this incredibly unbreakable guy, like most kids think of their parents, but really, that’s not what makes him my hero. What makes him my hero is that he’s always there for me, but he made me realize that everyone needs someone to be there for them. So I’m there for him when he needs me.