Since I was old enough to remember, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sounds of jagged music echoing and reverberating through the house. When I tip-toed from my room to see where it was coming from, it was always the same, familiar source. My dad: practicing his guitar.
As a child, I wasn’t passionate about music. The only feelings I associated with guitars and drums were the annoyance I felt when they roused me awake the night before a big math test. However, as I began my middle school years, music started appearing everywhere. Everyone was always talking about their favorite artist’s new album or their celebrity crush from a certain boy band.
I figured I might as well give music a try. With my birthday conveniently approaching, I begged my mom to buy me an iPod. After just a few months’ wait, I finally was able to get my hands on the very thing that no one could keep quiet about. Hopeful, I turned in the top 100 hits for the week. I was met with nothing except severe disappointment.
I had imagined that listening to music of my choice on my own device would be a magical experience, or at least considerably better than listening to the morning radio. However, all the songs sounded dull to me. I mindlessly hid away the new iPod in my bedside drawer with no intention of rediscovering it.
A few weeks later, I started to have trouble sleeping. A rough but melodic tune kept me up: the sound of a guitar. I thought this strange hobby was just a phase of my dad’s that he had outgrown years ago. I stomped down the steps to ask him why he was playing so late, saying how music was a waste of time and certainly not something to trade for sleep.
When my dad heard my opinion on music, his face twisted with horror. He asked how I came to such a conclusion, when there is such a variety of music in the world, each with its own unique composition and sound. I almost laughed at him. Everything I had heard up to that point had sounded exactly the same.
My dad asked me to sit down. I asked why. His answer wasn’t spoken; instead, he played me a song on his guitar. At first, I was tempted to get up and leave, but as the song went on, I became more intrigued. What he played for me was different from anything I had ever heard before. It was harsh but euphonious; symphonic but unrefined. With newly awakened curiosity, I asked him how he learned to make music sound so good. He explained to me that it sounded better to me because it was a different genre. It was called rock.
Since that day, rock has been my favorite type of music. I have delved into numerous rock bands and songs, and at one point, I even tried to learn how to play the guitar myself. Even though that proved futile, rock music taught me how to appreciate other genres as well. I wouldn’t be who I was today without it.
