Vicky Ewan: Songs in the key of family so memorable

One of the things I miss most about the majority of our children no longer living at home is that I rarely hear their choice of music anymore. Without realising it, I had grown accustomed to their song selections, absorbing them into the musical library in my head and neatly cataloguing them in a section entitled ‘Music I would most likely not choose, but don't mind listening to, as my child is a fan’ (a superfluously lengthy title, admittedly). Of course, this kind of music appreciation by osmosis occurs throughout our lives: we are influenced first by our parents and other caregivers, secondly by our friends, and thirdly by people with whom we have relationships. In addition to this exposure, we are unwittingly introduced to alternative choices through work, social clubs, and radio and television programmes. Each output plays its part in expanding and honing our own musical tastes, until we end up with a conglomeration of musical knowledge and definite ideas about what it is that we like and dislike. Growing up, I lived in a household where crooners and easy-listening artists dominated the airwaves. My parents had a modest record collection, gradually overtaken by the emergence of cds. We would usually listen to music during our evening meal, a pleasure afforded by my clever brother wiring up speakers from the stereo system in the lounge to transmit music into the dining room. Early on, I developed a passion for The Carpenters - a love that was initially nurtured by the arrival onto my secondary school scene of a dynamic new music teacher with the admirable ability to create four-part harmonies for any popular song; I think ‘Goodbye to love’ was one of the very first pieces we rehearsed (I can recall skipping merrily home and announcing to my somewhat puzzled mother that we were learning a song written by a carpenter; I'm sure the light must have dawned when she attended our school concert later that year). As was the wont of most pre-teen and teenaged girls, I cherished an ardent love for the boy bands of my youth: Bros, and New Kids on the Block (or NKOTB, as they rebranded themselves, seeking a cooler persona than they had originally presented) featured prominently here, posters of their preppy faces pinned to my bedroom walls. My best friend had much edgier tastes than me, and shared with me her love of rock and metal. One evening, as we travelled back by coach with classmates from an off-campus trip, she allowed me to commandeer her earphones for the purpose of listening to the initial section of a song we both loved for different reasons: I was drawn to the sentimental lyrics and lonesome chords of the first half, and she relished the full-on rockiness of the second. She was none too impressed when she retrieved the device and realised the song was nearing its conclusion - though I like to think that she was filled with a grudging respect that I had sneakily enjoyed the latter part of the song, considering as she did (and still does) that my choices are a little too conventional for her palate. When university first became my dwelling-place, the country was deeply submerged in the Britpop era, and, through the influence of the girls in my corridor, I cultivated an affinity for Blur and Oasis; the iconic album offered by each group frequently rotated in my cd player in the communal kitchen (thankfully, the appreciation for both bands was universal in our halls of residence. Or so I like to think.). My husband has an enduring love for 70s and 80s music: Chic, David Bowie, the Eagles, ELO; a preference which has rubbed off on me - and our children - to a fair extent. He, too, favours the crooners (and, I should say, is himself a gifted performer of the style of song those musicians emulate); this mutual love endeared him to my mum most happily. But it has perhaps been my children who have provided the greatest deviation from my own musical proclivities, opening my eyes - and ears - to a number of artists with whom I was not familiar, and thus broadening my own likings. My eldest daughter developed a huge love for Coldplay - an adulation I was only too happy to share. Her younger sisters were devout fans of One Direction in their childhood, transferring their loyalties unequivocally to Harry Styles when he catapulted himself back onto the scene a few years after the group disbanded - and I can understand the appeal. My elder son headed in a different direction, eschewing the pop music preferred by his closer siblings and fixing alternative artist Lana del Rey firmly in his firmament; I find her vocals hauntingly beautiful. And the youngest is a true-blue Swiftie (that's a Taylor Swift fan, to you and me); her albums are the constant soundtrack to his washing-up duties - making the chore somewhat more bearable, and amusing my husband and I no end as we listen to him singing along at the top of his lungs. Recently, my younger daughter and elder son came to stay for a few days, for a birthday celebration - and, in a the blink of an eye, the music issuing forth from our ever-obedient smart speaker reverted to the tunes of yesteryear, and familiar melodies silvered the air, suffusing me with nostalgia - and a sense of how much has changed. My children: I have missed you. What I have not missed, however, are the toothpaste splatters traversing the bathroom sink, the lights being left on at all hours, and the mugs and plates strewn about the place - although, I admit, the encroaching crockery is joyful evidence of the reinstated employment of my larger teapot. I guess Chic had it right, in the end: These are the good times. I must hold them fast.