My dad and I shared many things: incredibly dark hair, arm hair that one could braid, a love of Law & Order, and an obsession with music. Though we often commiserated or joked about those other commonalities, music was what really bonded us together. In the 90s, before digital radio displays, we would challenge each other to “name that song.” More often than not, we could get it right within seconds. Many of my favourite childhood memories involve errand running with Dad, because we would play this game in the car. Canadian bands were our specialty.
Music was a powerful thing between him and I. We would share CDs, which made things particularly problematic when we both wanted to listen to Jagged Little Pill at the same time in two different places. He introduced me to some of the best music, including bands I still love to this day. I honestly can’t hear a Collective Soul or Foo Fighters song without recalling how much he loved those bands.
Dad used to call them the Footos Fighters just to irk me
Most of our musical tastes overlapped. There were really very few songs or bands that one of us loved and the other didn’t. That all changed in 1997, with the release of In Loving Memory Of… by the (apparently part American) Canadian band Big Wreck.
It wasn’t a bad record. In fact, I still listen to songs like “The Oaf (My Luck Is Wasted)” and “Under the Lighthouse” to this day. In Loving Memory Of… had commercial and critical success on both sides of the boarder, but was particularly well received in Canada where three singles hit the charts. Two of those hits were “The Oaf” and “Blown Wide Open.” The other has been the bane of my existence since October 1997, when my dad brought In Loving Memory Of… into our lives. That particular song is entitled “That Song”, and I still shudder just thinking about it.
He listened to it All.The.Damned.Time. for what felt like 17 billion years. It was seriously so often that even now when I hear those opening notes I make this face:
And can’t help but cry out:
Years later, my interest in writing was reignited after I discovered comic books. I had always been interested in so-called geeky pastimes, but this was the first time I wanted to write something public about it. This desire quickly spread from a desire to write about comic books to a desire to write about literally everything. I was fearful, however. What if people didn’t love the Thing the way I did? What if I somehow liked the Thing in the wrong way? I wasn’t with the most supportive romantic partner at the time, and was too nervous to talk with my friends about it. For a long while, I just thought about the things I wanted to embrace and to share without actually doing anything about it. While Dad and I never really spoke about my desire to pick the pen back up, we did talk about shared interests, and I remember feeling encouraged when he told me he found my thoughts “insightful and interesting.” Still, I let that fear of what others may think prevent me from grabbing that pen.
After he passed away, my step-mom, sister, and I discussed songs to play at his service. There were a few obvious choices, such as “Run” by Collective Soul and “My Hero” by Foo Fighters. The fact that Dad had overplayed “That [Bloody] Song” to the point of ruination never strayed far from my mind, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized why. He simply didn’t care. Dad listened to it so often he would have worn out a cassette tape, but that didn’t matter. He loved “That [Damned] Song” and that was enough. He loved the Thing and it didn’t matter how anyone else felt about it. His experience was his experience and he was going to allow himself that indulgence as often as he wanted. Hearing a song was free; it was cathartic; it was therapeutic; it was joyful; it was whatever he wanted it to be when he wanted it to be. Dad didn’t care if the neighbours heard, or if I complained to literally everyone I knew about “That [Effing] Song”. It was something he liked because it was what it was. Even after he was gone, he was still teaching me a valuable life lesson.
Using that lesson as a base, I started, slowly, writing about my opinions on things. At first they were “safe” thoughts, limited to which Doctor Who episodes I thought were the funniest and other more lighthearted things. Eventually, though, I started writing about more serious topics, like my mental health difficulties and my sexuality. Each time I hit publish, there are a few seconds where I worry that others may not see the Thing the way I do. But then I remember that it doesn’t really matter.
Now, I’m fairly open about the things I love. I try not to use phrases like “guilty pleasure” and “secret unpopular opinion.” Instead, I remember my Dad listening to “That [Freaking] Song” on repeat, not caring one bit what any of us thought about it. He would never have called Big Wreck a guilty pleasure (apparently part American) Canadian band; they were a Thing he enjoyed, without shame or explanation. When it comes to learning how to embrace your inner geek, there is no greater lesson than that.
