Tom Dunne: I thought my teen too cool for my music, but she still loves Fleetwood Mac
rumours fleetwood mac
“Your time is over.” The actual words of my actual child as I was driving her home from Coola Club. The actual cheek. I was stunned. As with any other criticism I’ve heard in life, I felt there must be some truth in it. Otherwise, why would they say it? Not a great trait that, but still.
The dispute was over walking home alone. It was 9pm, a long, lonely road and once, a few years ago (okay 35 years ago) a few roads over (okay, about three miles away) a girl was... well I won’t say, but it wasn’t good. What was a dad to do?
I stood my ground, but the words “your time is over,” echoed in my head. Basically, this meant I was too old to know anything, my views were out of date, worthless, not informed. It was time for me, and my ilk, to move over. All I could think was ‘Christ! that was fast.’ It had been going so well. Any man who thinks he might be a cool dad obviously isn’t. However, ever since she was four, she’d shown an interest in Fleetwood Mac and I was able to produce Rumours on vinyl and say “black plastic, make magic.” I thought I was looking good.
Aged five she’d become addicted to the video of The Chain. She would dig out the Mac’s greatest hits and scroll down to its title and then type those words into Google. Then she would watch the video, with Mick Fleetwood being superb, over and over. I think Mensa still has the letters I wrote to them about this.
This progressed to helping me grade all the music being sent into the show. She would crawl under my desk as I listened to all the new releases. Then I’d call out the band name and she would write it down and give it marks out of ten. We rarely disagreed.
One summer, in the car, she became addicted to the Jenny Lewis album Voyager. One song in particular she adored, a track called Late Bloomer. It’s the story of a young American girl hooking up with some cool and trendy types in Paris. What can I say? It all kicks off in Paris. “Please never sing this when your mother is about,” I prayed.
Needless to say this was all too good to last. I blame Frozen and foreign holidays. Frozen introduced the concept of songs she might love and I might not get that much: ‘her own music,’ you might say. Then a trip abroad introduced music blaring beside swimming pools about drinks, overnight stays and boys. My days were numbered. The tsunami, though, that swept away all vestiges of parental influence was TikTok. Her own phone in secondary and access to TikTok was the end of it. It was like someone beamed a ‘teenager kit’ into the house overnight.
This was the period of the involuntary dance, moves practiced so often the dancer can’t actually stop. You will see these children in public, ostensibly walking but actually dancing, arms flying out, shoulders dropping, head rotating, hand gesturing dramatically. Private dancers.
It felt like she had joined a secret society. “Oh look another one,” you’d say as you walked along. They’d nod to each other. Sisters in harmony, members of the TikTok society, endless dancing, practising, improving.
A week after the “Your time is over” debacle we were invited to a friend’s house for pizza and an ‘all double-vaxxed night out.’ As the drinks flowed, I tossed my phone to the kids, ours and theirs, and said, “you guys do the music.” They loved this and got stuck into the Dua Lipa.
But then, about 30 minutes later I started to detect Fleetwood Mac cropping up. My ears wandered. A few tracks later it was the unmistakable strains of Nada Surf’s ‘Cold to See Clear’, followed by Mystery Jets ‘Blood Red Balloon.’ I looked across as my child said to theirs, “I don’t know what it is about this song, but I just love it.”
Kirsty MacColl’s New England was next. “Why are you playing that?” I asked. “It’s the bomb,” she told me, before asking, “Do you know a song called, Video Killed the Radio Star?” “The Buggles,” I answered. “I’ve interviewed him.” “Of course you did, dad, you’ve interviewed everyone.”
She rolled her eyes, but I would argue, in a good way.
Extra time beckons.
