As a mother of young children I would blast the walls of the house with music every weekday. It got everyone out of bed and ready for school. There were different playlists for different days of the week. Choices of music that evolved over the seasons, but never ever the songs that they played on local radio. It was a morning mush of The Clash, Lou Reed, Buffalo Tom, Blondie, Bjork, The Pixies, Pulp, Gorrilaz, Joy Division, Fat Boy Slim, The Streets and Hüsker Dü. It was music that I had danced to before stretch-marks and suburbia, and I danced again as I filled their lunch-boxes and toasted breakfast. “Hurry” I would shout “It’s the Stratford Four, so you should all be brushing your teeth.” They hated me.
These days we have really quiet mornings, but everyone in the household still has a good record for punctuality. They make playlists to share with their friends: The Buzzcocks, Lou Reed and all, but then also glorious new music that I’ve never heard before. When they come home they write songs, play drums, guitars, the bass and keyboards. The floorboards shake. In the kitchen, cutting onions for our supper, I dance.
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