This catchy car jam, which I’ve been playing on repeat, reminds me of the R&B female vocalists I listened to as a kid. My music preference cycles. As a toddler, it was pop that I loved, songs by belly button-baring Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera.
By age eight, it was Ciara and Usher and Missy Elliot that I danced to with friends. We gyrated across gym floors, much to the dismay of our teachers. “Those dance moves are too sexy,” my teacher said. “What does she know about sexy?” I muttered to my best friend.
At eleven, a love for pop morphed into indie, (The Hush Sound) alternative rock (MakeDamnSure) and rap. My friends wore skinny jeans when skinny jeans weren’t in and styled their hair like anime characters, spiky in the back, layered on top.
Age twelve was both sensitive and taut, a year that bled of R&B Ray J, Ne-Yo, J Holiday, Kanye. This was our song. Together, we cried under trees.
By fourteen, it was rap that imbued my days. I remember the look on my friends’ faces as I rapped obscure lines to Nicki and Trey Songz right before a test. We passed dull days in Spanish by singing J. Cole. In the mornings, I played Kid Cudi to wake myself up.
Sixteen and seventeen hopped onto the indie pop train of Bon Iver, Florence and the Machine, Lana.
For a brief period in between eighteen, I listened to lots of G-Eazy. Then rap. The only thing that my crushes had in common were that they liked rap. Was I interested in them? Or was I interested in their taste in music?
Everything since then has bounced from one of the aforementioned genres to another.