As I got older, my father would invite me to listen to records with him on the old stereo in their bedroom. He would pull out Heart albums and express his undying desire for pre-80s Nancy and Ann Wilson. His passion for
Fleetwood Mac extended to encompass his worship of
Stevie Nicks. The first time I saw that ubiquitous Springsteen's-ass-amidst-patriotic-backdrop album cover was when I was still wearing a Muppet Babies nightgown. That memory is as fresh for me as my fifth birthday party. When we moved to the country and left behind our child-friendly neighborhood in town, my 8-year-old self created my own "radio station," complete with all of the classic hits I'd dubbed from my dad's records onto tape. I mimicked the "SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY" booming voices of the local deejays and used my alarm clock to create wacky radio-esque sound bytes. I entered middle school as an awkward girl who worshipped The Moody Blues and could sing
Petty/Nicks's duet "Stop Dragging My Heart Around" word for word.
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