Now that’s what I call music

Molly Whitehead-Jones - 6 Mar 17

Just recently, I recalled a random memory.

It was about eight years ago; I was in the office, excitedly talking to a desk mate about a gig I was going to that night (not an unusual occurrence in itself as, in those days, I was out watching live music at least once every couple of weeks). And then another colleague – one with two little girls at home – interjected, “You wait – when kids come along, family life will take over, and you just won’t be able to keep up with the latest bands anymore.”

I’d scoffed, convinced that would NEVER happen. Because, back then, music really was everything to me. At uni, I’d reviewed albums for the student paper, worked in an indie club and talent scouted for a record company; now I had a proper grown-up job, at least a fifth of my income went on gig tickets, CDs (no iTunes in those days, guys) and band merch. I was pretty convinced I’d end up marrying a lead guitarist. I’d even had a quaver note tattoo inked on my wrist to prove the extent of my fandom.

But, much to my chagrin, it turns out that world-weary work mate of mine was right; I have to admit that my relationship with music has waned since my twosome became a threesome.

Fact is I simply don’t have the time or headspace to keep up with it all. Instead of reading NME cover to cover to find out who I should be listening to next, I mainly get my ‘next big thing’ tips from the little snippets they play pre- and post-ad break during Sunday Brunch. I still listen to BBC 6 Music when I get the chance, but Lauren Laverne’s recommended tracks are usually drowned out by the blaring sound of Vtech’s finest.

In the rare moment of peace that my work commute affords, I find myself listening to the same albums over and over, or (even worse) just defaulting to shuffle. I was recently surprised to hear that one of my supposedly favourite bands were releasing a new record in a few days; back in 2010, the date would have been circled on my calendar for months beforehand.

It was at Christmas, watching Top of the Pops with my parents and grandmother as we do every year, that I realised I’d firmly and finally crossed over to the ‘other side’. Because no longer was I absorbed in each performance and defending the latest pop poppets against a barrage of abuse for the rest of the room; I was laying into them myself, repeating the same clichés (“Well, I’ve never heard of them”, “She’s not got much of a voice”, etc.) that my folks have been rolling out since I was a teen.

So this is who I’ve become: a chart-hating fogey, totally out of touch.

It’s a shame that things have gone this way. But I can’t mourn the loss of my music nous too much. Because like all of the loves of my life, it’s had to shift form – diminish just a little – to make way for the biggest, best love there is. Because the fact is (prepare for Ronan Keating levels of cheesiness…) listening to a CD can’t give me as much joy as I get from being with my little boy. And if I spend endless, ear-ringing nights out at gigs, how am I going to fully appreciate all the aural pleasure of soft play the next day..?

And I haven’t lost my passion entirely. I may not be at the cutting edge anymore, but the classic albums I’ve long enjoyed are still there in my heart and right there on my – decidedly old school – iPod. A few months ago, I loaded Elliot onto a rickety train to Rochdale to watch Lauren Laverne broadcast her show live from the library there (she told Elliot she was his “Auntie Lala” and was super kind to us – it was a proper fan girl moment for me).

And I still make it out to a gig every now and again – I just have to make sure I’ve got a quick exit route so I’m definitely, 100 per cent going to be in bed by midnight.

Rock and roll.

Molly Whitehead-Jones

Molly Whitehead-Jones is a first-time mum living in Manchester and founder of Mamas Collective, a mums group that offers meetups, workshops & events for savvy, super-cool mamas who love their kids but won’t let motherhood hold them back.

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