Most of what I like, I was given before I knew I had a choice.
My father played records the way other people read, not as background, as the main event. Neil Young, Pink Floyd, Bruce Springsteen. He had opinions about pressings and would sit through a full side of vinyl without talking. I absorbed more from that than I realized at the time.
By my teens I was finding my own path, though it wasn’t so much a departure as an extension. The indie and alternative scene of the early 2000s gave me The National, The Walkmen, a certain kind of anxious guitar music that kept the emotional weight of what my dad loved and pushed it somewhere more urban and restless. I read Pitchfork the way you read something when you’re still figuring out who you are — looking for a map more than a review.
Over time I moved toward the quieter end. Bill Callahan, Bonnie “Prince” Billy. Music that stripped the production back and trusted the writing to hold the room. Songs that assumed you were paying attention.
The artist I return to most is Sufjan Stevens. Part of it is the craft: the arrangements are intricate, the kind where you catch something new after thirty listens. Mostly it’s the emotional register. He doesn’t protect himself. The records risk a sincerity that’s almost uncomfortable, and that’s exactly what makes them work.
I still go to shows. A record is something you return to when you’re ready; a show requires you to decide to be present. The ones I remember aren’t usually the loudest.
The thread connecting all of it, from my dad’s vinyl to Sufjan Stevens on headphones, is music that doesn’t hedge. Songs made by people who put something real into them and trust you to meet them there. I’ve never been able to get interested in music designed to be liked.