You know that feeling when you're eight years old, crammed into the back of a car, and the road to Cornwall feels like it's taking about three hundred years? That was my childhood. Eight hours of motorway, lukewarm service station sandwiches, and the absolute legend of the mix CD.
Now, look, my dad's a bus driver. He knows how to keep a rhythm. But his taste in music? It's all over the shop. One minute you're nodding along to something that sounds like it belongs in a 70s pub in the middle of nowhere, and the next, it's some proper soul that makes you feel like you're floating.
Those CDs were everything. They weren't just music; they were the only thing keeping us sane while we cruised down the M6. I can still see the handwritten labels — scrawled in felt-tip, slightly smudged, with titles like "Summer Mix '04" or "The Good Stuff."
I remember sitting there, staring out the window at the grey English rain, while some Aretha Franklin track would kick in and suddenly the car felt like a palace. That's where I first fell in love with the big voices. The ones that don't just sing a song but actually tell you something. I'd be humming along, probably off-key, dreaming of singing like that one day. (Turns out, I did — Parkdean trouper life, baby!)
The best bit was the surprises. You'd be expecting another pop hit and then suddenly — BAM — a bit of classic country or a deep-cut soul track that you'd never heard before. It's why I don't gatekeep music now. Why care if it's from 1965 or 2025? If it hits, it hits.
Those drives weren't always easy — being disabled means the car journeys could be a right pain in the arse — but the music smoothed it all out. It was our own little world in there. Just me, the old man, and a plastic disc full of songs that still make me feel like I'm heading south for the holidays, even when I'm just nipping to the chip shop.
Music's the only thing that never let me down. And I've got my dad's mix CDs to thank for that.
This is a piece about the power of a curated mix and the memories tied to those long family hauls. It's about where the love for the 'old stuff' actually starts.