I grew up with country music and classical music. The combination means I have odd tastes, odd tastes that I tried to instill in Little to no avail.
As I drove her home from kindergarten, I would honk my horn and sign to Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic. Little would hit the floor, ashamed of her older sister’s antic and horrified by the music.
My taste hasn’t improved much. I like songs that ache, that sound like they know something about joy and pain and disappointment. Elizabeth Cook sounds like she knows something of things that matter.
And on really bad days, I listen to a hometown girl, Marjo Wilson.