I mentioned recently that my childhood included more than one hometown, one best friend, and one school. Amidst the frequent changes one of the constants in the background of our lives was my parents’ music. And to be clear, I don’t mean “their music,” I mean his music and her music. My mother leaned towards James Taylor and his ilk. She would play entire albums, sprinting down the stairs to crank the volume for Handyman. I’ll never forget the very night, years later, when I was in college and kicking back in my girlfriend’s dorm room, laughing, and talking, and listening to James Taylor ad nauseum; we were full of independence and self-discovery. I’d fallen in love with You’ve Got A Friend and Fire and Rain and thought I was worlds away from where I came from, and then it happened. The next song to play was…you know where this is going, right?…Handyman. I absolutely could not believe it. How could it be the same guy? Me? My mom? But you know, that’s really another story.

Now my Dad’s musical tastes are a little more, well, varied. He’s a huge music buff, and, if you ask him, an authority, as well. In my whole life I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard my dad listen to any song in its entirety, which at this stage is a strangely comforting idiosyncrasy. Although he doesn’t listen to the entire song, he listens to enough of it to form an opinion, and again, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to share it. Take a peek at his old albums, or today at his CDs, and you’ll see a coded rating system, with each song given from 0 to 5 stars according to its merits. And somewhere in that stack I bet you’ll find an old Bo Diddley album, because whenever I hear one of his songs, I think of my dad. Bo Diddley passed away yesterday at the rather young age of 79. I’ll miss your music, Bo, and I bet my dad will, too. -Kirsetin