Once upon a long ago, when dads had shiny shoes to dance upon and mums had demiwaves and A-line skirts, a stack of her mother’s 45s made its way into her bedroom. They came with a vanity case sized record player, hand built by her dad. Home made Dansette, cased in rough fabric that she would run her fingers over as the stack of records dropped one by one to circle under the cream plastic stylus arm.
Ten and twenty years earlier than current, the songs were the songs of her mother’s youth. Sparky pop and syrupy crooners, they filled her chest with a longing she couldn’t yet understand, the first swell of love inspired by minor chords and soaring key changes, a rib cracking expansion of her being that travelled through life and flowed through her marrow every time a songwriter moved her.
Her mum passed her driving test. A cassette stereo was put into the car. The sounds from the 45s were captured on magnetic tape. On escapes from the everyday, they would drive into the hills, wearing out the tapes, belting out the songs together. Two uncool girls separated by thirty years, moved by popstars and crooners.