My taste in music is an extension of Dad’s, rooted as it is in pre-1980s rockism and in melody-forward (but not treacly) Western classical music circa 1800–1950. I’m more than okay with that. I feel happy about it, in fact. It gives him and me a relational bridge, a line I have frankly underexploited. It also feels nice to know that a part of me I enjoy comes from somewhere. Is it weird to be thankful for your own taste in music?