At some point in my youth, I realized most kids weren’t explicitly taught to be a music fan by their parents, like they might be with a sports team. My peers didn’t sing early Who hits at the third-grade talent show, or find themselves too scared to sleep after hearing the Beatles’ White Album played backwards. They weren’t being quizzed on classic song intros by age 10, and debating Dark Side of the Moon vs. Wish You Were Here as the best Pink Floyd album by their preteen years. Other kids didn’t steal their dad’s Dookie and Tragic Kingdom CDs, or lose their shit over a handmade comp of ’60s one-hit-wonders like “Red Rubber Ball.” For a long time I felt this made me special, to have this musical bond with my dad; I knew it was an extension of his love. Later, I came to view it as a passed-down survival skill. I inherited so much from him, and the way we both self-soothe anxiety and depression (mine diagnosed, his not) with pop songs is a coping mechanism for a shared genetic flaw.