"Who's that?" daughter number one asks me.
I am driving her home from volunteering at hospital radio. Her favourite thing.
She's referring to the sweet, raggedy three-piece making a noise on the car's CD player. "The Lemonheads," I tell her. "It's A Shame About Ray." [1]
"Don't think I've heard that before."
"Really? I love this album."
I start to sing along with Evan Dando on Alison's Starting To Happen. I skip the line about nipple piercing. Well, daughter number two is also in the car. Otherwise, I'm word perfect.
Daughter number one, possibly seeking to distract me from murdering a fine tune, starts talking about Dinosaur Jr. Every day she is discovering new music. "Do you like them?"
"I never liked J Mascis's voice, really. Or was it Lou Barlow's? Can't remember now."
Whoever it is, she's not keen either. I like these moments when our tastes coalesce.
But I can't get past the idea that she doesn't know The Lemonheads. I'm always playing this record. Aren't I?
Actually, maybe not. The more I think about it the more I realise I don't play it that often. And when I do - and I'm not singing along - it makes me think back to when the record came out. Start of the 1990s when I was still in my 20s. Just about. It was 1992, the year I spent most of my time - or so it seemed - driving from Stirling to north Wales to see J in Bangor where she had gone to study. The Lemonheads on the little portable cassette player.
I would drive down for weekends, five hours and a bit each way. Not every weekend but enough to not have to look at the road map. Past Glasgow and Gretna, halfway down England, then a right turn around Chester.
It seemed to matter. That year was the only time I ever thought we were in trouble as a couple because J seemed so distant [2]. Maybe, come to think of it, I don't want to remember that time too much. Maybe I only play this album when I'm in the car myself.
Nineteen ninety-two. Driving for hours. The car breaking down. The car getting broken into. Reversing the car into someone else's in a street in Bangor. Waking up in a bedroom in the town thinking I might not be welcome back here. Phone calls that trailed off into silence. Empty nights in my Stirling flat alone [3]. Imagining a life without J in it. Frankly, now I think about it, I'm surprised I play the Lemonheads at all.
We got married in 1993. Easter. Guess she wasn't as distant as I thought. We didn't play Dinosaur Jr at the reception. J never cared for them either.
Back in the present, the Lemonheads have started singing Mrs Robinson. Their Simon and Garfunkel cover. "I know this one," daughter number one says.
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