Not Your Typical Soccer Mom

My musical interests, like any other person's, are highly influenced by my parents. I mean, my parents don't necessarily influence you, but you catch my drift. You don't always like what your parents played around the house when you were a kid, but occasionally it sticks. Thank god my parents have exceptional taste in music. I can sit in the same car with either my mom or dad and generally like whatever they listen to. This became more of an issue now that my dad has an iPod, but I digress. My mom is a fan of The Classics, you know, everything from Jackson 5 to Emerson, Lake and Palmer, to .38 Special, but she has been known to dabble in current Top 40. But then again, who hasn't. My dad is a little more hesitant to get on board with newer music, even though for some reason he adores Gnarls Barkley and Maroon 5. He grew up listening to his brother's music, Supertramp, Boston, whatever the poor Mexican kids could get their hands on that wasn't Vicente Fernandez was gold. He's been to more concerts than anyone I know, including Kiss, which is beyond me, to Billy Joel and the Police. Fairly well rounded.

So it's weird to think about how in the hell I became so obsessed with Dave. Clearly my parents aren't of the hippie, jam-band persuasion. I mean my dad's in the Navy, we move around every few years, so I wasn't raised as a flower child, though sometimes I think that would have been pretty sweet. In 1996 we were in Jacksonville, Florida, where I spent my days running around as a happy 7 year old tagging along with my older 11 year old brother. It was a normal suburban kid's life. My first album I bought and listened to with "My First Walkman" was Grease. And for some reason Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust. I was kind of a weird kid.

My mom acquired a cassette (That's a right, a cassette) by a band creatively titled Dave Matthews Band. Her hippie-ish nephew, my cousin, gave it to her thinking it might be something she enjoyed. This particular nephew was the eldest son of her eldest brother, so Michael the progressive hippie was more like a little brother to her. She played the tape around the house until my brother stole it. Being the crafty woman she is, my mother bought another tape to keep in the car, knowing she would probably never see the other copy again. My brother still does this. He's 23. Grow up, Jared.

My mom had no idea she was changing the course of my musical aptitude when she strapped me in the backseat, closed the door and pushed play on our stereo of our bitchin' minivan. I learned to love Dave. Granted I had no idea who he was, or why the entire band went by his name, but I was hooked. I began to request the "monkey on a string" song, or the "mom, it's my birthday" song. The obsession never really waivered. Even through my emo-before-anyone-knew-what-emo-was phase, when I thought listening to Good Charlotte and Unwritten Law made me a licensed badass. I've been with Dave since Under the Table And Dreaming, when I was of similar likeness.

I've seen Dave three times now, and finally got my mom to see him live this past summer.

She cried during "#41."