I am, I said.

I'm a firm believer in the fact that we inherit a lot more from our parents than eye color, allergies and the need to purchase grocery items in bulk. I truly think that our taste in music is spread all over the genetic code, too.

I mean, why else would I find myself at Neil Diamond concert on a perfectly random Tuesday night in October? Yeah, chalk that one up to Mom, along with my CD collection that also (bravely) includes Lionel Richie and Barry Manilow. Guilty pleasures, certainly, but I don't think it's just the nostalgia of dancing around the house to "Cherry, Cherry," "Copacabana" and "All Night Long" in all of my eight-year-old glory that keeps me grooving to these tunes even today. It's got to be predetermined.

Nature vs. nurture? You be the judge.

I sort of have a love-hate relationship with Fleetwood Mac thanks to my father. That's because Sister E and I would have to listen to the opening strains of "Go Your Own Way" about 50,000 times on the way to Catechism each and every Sunday morning for over a year. Once Mick Fleetwood gets through that early drum solo, Dad pressed rewind and started the whole darned thing over again. It's fine the first 500 times, sure. After that, well, we honestly wanted to tell Dad he could go his own way, too.

And also thanks to Dad, "Drunken Sailor," as performed by the Celtic Folk - the Celtic Folk being an Irish, but New Orleans-based, mostly cover band Dad took us to see countless times in bars in the French Quarter during family vacations (yes, family vacations) - will forever be imprinted on my brain as one of those songs I hate to love. I'd like to think the Folk were just early precursors to my enjoyment of Damien Rice, Swell Season, The Frames, The Chieftains (of course), Van Morrison, and maybe even a little Peter Gabriel. 

And it wouldn't be summertime without my father blaring Sweet Baby James through the speakers in the backyard. In fact, you can pretty much determine whether it's summer, spring, winter or fall by Dad's current play list. When "Mexico" can be heard as you turn down my parents' street (even with the windows rolled up), you know it's just about June 21.  

So, yes, my mother educated us well in all things Manilow, Richie and Diamond. I chose to ignore her careful instruction regarding Johnny Mathis because, come on - ick. I did pay very close attention when she introduced me to The Boss. Every album was memorized, every song cherished. Countless hours spent dancing in front of the porch's sliding glass door (especially at night, so we could see ourselves boogie-ing that much better) to "Born in the U.S.A." Bruce was a prophet and Mom was like the high priestess of '80s Americana rock, showing us the light on the path of Heartland-inspired truth. God bless you for that, Mom. 

And my parents certainly aren't the only ones involved in my musical evolution. Oh, no. I thank my college roommate for introducing me to all things English - like the Spice Girls, Squeeze, Blur and the Chemical Brothers. She also fed my strange fascination with David Bowie, Queen and introduced me to Liz Phair (who deserves her very own blog post someday since I love her so much). I swapped Paul Simon, Beatles, Three Dog Night and Simon & Garfunkel CDs with my high school friends. And I will always be thankful to Tim for leading me to Pearl Jam and thus, later, an immediate connection with Dr. X. I can't remember his name, but I'll always remember the blonde boy in ninth-grade world history who was talking so animatedly about Depeche Mode that I ran out and bought everything I could that day, becoming a fan for years and years (and then The Smiths, and then New Order, and the list goes on).

What goes around comes around, though. While others have imparted their knowledge, giving me hours of endless musical enjoyment, I like to pay it forward from time to time. Dr. X didn't have MTV growing up and, God bless his soul, missed most of '80s pop. Can you imagine such a world? One that did not include Madonna, the Beastie Boys or Run DMC? 

Me, listening to an '80s radio show during a long-distance phone call with Dr. X when we began dating: "Oh, I love this song! 'Raspberry Beret!' Don't you just love Prince?"

Dr. X: "Prince who? What's a raspberry beret?"

Me: "Are you frakin' kidding me? You don't know who Prince is?"

I don't know what saved me from hanging up on him in that moment. At the time, I had low tolerance for those lacking any sense of random pop culture. Prince isn't random, though! It's Prince. It was true love, I guess. He's a wonderful man since he never held it against me (to this day) that I don't know much about Riders in the Sky or Sons of the Pioneers. I can't often distinguish George Strait from George Jones. We do, however, agree on the Dixie Chicks and I cried a little when Johnny Cash died.

But it was definitely Pearl Jam that sealed the deal. "You have three Pearl Jam CDs (circa 1996)?" he asked, slightly in awe, as he perused my music collection for the first time. I guess it was a big transition since his ex-girlfriend was a huge Jon Secada fan.

A match made in music heaven. What a beautiful noise.