No one can say I didn’t try.

I bought him gift cards, posted playlists, and even attempted to hijack his phone a time or two, but despite all my best efforts, a Spotify account for my Daddy was not to be.

When I was little, he always seemed to want the cutting edge technology, the best of the best. But now, with a whole world of digital music available at his fingertips, he still preferred the real thing. Can you blame the guy?

So I met him halfway and took to sharing music with him in texts and on Facebook. Some songs he really liked, others weren’t his style, but when I heard Childish Gambino’s “Redbone” for the first time, I loved it and knew he would too. I decided to post it on his wall, already playing defense against the inevitable phone call later asking me about that song I sent him.

His reaction didn’t disappoint.

“That’s what I’m talking bout. In the groove,” he wrote in the comments. Fully encouraged, I filled the post up with more tracks from Gambino’s “Awaken, My Love!” and by the time I was through, a friend of his had even joined in, and Daddy was texting me thanking me for the songs. He’d picked up a few tracks from the kid before, but I was pretty proud of myself knowing that I’d probably just introduced him to the whole catalog of a 21st century musical genius. It was a good night.

A few weeks later, my phone rang in the middle of the day, and I picked up rather absent-mindedly, which I rarely do.

“Hey, Joy Latrice! Whatchu doing, girl?” He always laughed when he greeted me on the phone like it was the best part of his day, and his energy was contagious.

I was most certainly doing something but almost definitely responded, “Oh, nothing” so I didn’t bring down the mood.

“Well, I don’t wanna keep ya, but lemme ask ya real quick… what was that album you told me about the other day? I’m in Best Buy.”

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