I’m not one to re-blog someone else’s posts–let alone, someone who I don’t even know. But this was too damn good to pass up. So, yeah, I basically just hijacked it and hit the ‘reblog’ option that it gave me at the bottom of the article.
Vikki Littlemore, I have no idea who you are, but I do know two things:
- Your parents are bonafide badasses.
- You can write!
And, readers… if you’ve lost, even a little bit, your raison d’etre for listening to music, then stop what you’re doing and READ this article/post. Now!
You’re going to love it.
And maybe you’ll even go out and buy some Bowie, or even better, Bolan…
I grew up with a Mum that taught me about David Bowie, and Marc Bolan, and a Dad that played The Smiths in the shower as loud as the stereo would go. I spent a large portion of my childhood being physically forced to transcribe James lyrics so he could learn them for the Karaoke. There was never any question in our house about what real music was.
I did buy the Number 1 single every week, and knew the lyrics to Take That, and The Spice Girls, because I had to fit in at school, but I always knew, at the back of my mind, that that wasn’t the real music. The real music was what my parents played at full volume when they were getting ready to go out. The smell of hairspray, and perfume; the twist of lipstick, and the creak of leather jackets, will always be…
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