Oh, fantastic. I woke up this morning to the sweet, delicate, life-affirming sound of my dad absolutely decimating every ounce of peace and quiet with Abracadabra by Steve freakin’ Miller Band. And I mean obliterating. The kind of volume that makes your eyeballs do that involuntary roll-and-shake thing, walls trembling like they’re about to quit on life, windows rattling in sheer existential terror. Because apparently, mornings need that kind of trauma.
And here’s the kicker: this is the same guy who normally worships at the shrine of mopey indie sad-boys like Jeff Buckley and Sufjan Stevens. You know, the genre where every chord sounds like someone is gently weeping into a cashmere sweater while simultaneously composing their own funeral playlist. You’d think waking up to that would be,
