My memory’s a convicted felon who keeps on pleading for innocence and thus won’t serve my mind its time and purpose well. But when it comes to my parents, I remember. I remember every quirk and habit of my old people.
They are the kind of folks that embrace Sunday mornings as a rooster would during the break of any dawn. Fumbling for the light switch in a dimly lit room, one of them would groggily approach the stereo, and turn that radio on. Or back then, insert a cassette tape into the player. Seconds thereafter, the oldest and the most soulful songs from nearly forgotten eras would suddenly be blasting from every corner of our house, forcing everyone to rise from a deep slumber.
The Platters, Eddie Peregrina, Frank and Nancy Sinatra, Claire de la Fuente, Bee Gees, The Beatles, George Michael, they made it look and ‘sound’ like their weekend gig was to perform and belt out their classic hits in our humble abode during Sundays.
During my younger days, this morning ritual annoyed the sense out of me and compelled me to sneak into the living room and slowly turn that volume down. Much to my dismay, my parents have the auditory nerves of a bat. I was caught red-handed, even with a slight notch on the decibel.
But time has changed, the older I get, the more I tend to appreciate their “unique to their time” love for music. I’ve outgrown my resentment towards their cassette tapes and CDs.
You know it, we’ve all experienced that “I’m really not into this song but how come I know its lyrics by heart, dammit” moment. This moment signifies one of those realizations of which I’m thankful for. Loving the old nor a totally different sounding tune doesn’t mean you are oblivious and cannot go with the flow of the present and the majority.
Old music brings back memories and experiences that propel me towards an upbeat EDM-like future.
Or maybe statement above is only partially true and I am just too “Manang” for my jam.