I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

Driving one of my children to a soccer game on a Saturday morning, I was visibly grooving

to a song from my youth.

He prints his sign of the times, and in a brilliant display of disregard or teenage

bravado, he absolutely changed the station, while scrolling his phone, a no-no to when

I was his age, and then the car with my parent.

But because I am an enlightened parent, I didn't smack his hand from the knob, or jokingly

say something on par of, do that again, and you're going to draw back a knob.

No, instead, I pushed the dial back to my station, and sang slightly louder until he noticed

my noisy joy.

Yet, there were those moments, too, when I did allow my children to hijack the stereo

and play their music, because they needed to get amped for the game, or simply they

were feeling some kind of way.

And my music didn't cut it, didn't console, or capture their melancholy, or rage, like

the musicians from their generation.

And frankly, you love that they have found a sound that speaks to their inner life,

and that they are sharing it with you, and not lost between their headphones.

Their enthusiasm for Cisa, Rex Orange County, Beach House, or Bikini Kill becomes infectious,

and you even hear how your tastes have mildly influenced their tastes, heavy bass, eclectic

sampling, crisp percussion, expansive lyrics that get beneath the surface of things.

It's as if you're listening to their values, their moods, and to words that imprint and

help them navigate their adolescent years, and all of his challenges.

...