Driving With the Red Hot Chili Peppers
It’s 2010. I’m in the backseat of my dad’s 1999 Volvo. His chair is reclined obnoxiously far back, a not-so-subtle indicator of the laissez-faire, cool guy nature he loved to present to the world. But, it was authentic, of course. A familiar scent lingers in the air—a blend of aftershave and diet coke, working harmoniously to drive me crazy. But the worst part, he has one disc permanently lodged in the CD player: Stadium Arcadium. I hate Stadium Arcadium.
And so I bitched and moaned anytime my dad drove me anywhere. You can see why, though. Like fathers everywhere, he knew just how to both infuriate and embarrass a seven-year-old girl. As a result, for the next ten years, I refused to listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The first two seconds of “Wet Sand” always put me right back in his car, wedged between a pile of board games and the back pocket of his driver’s seat.
Image Courtesy: Olivia Hansen
Now, I’m 21. I sit in my room, face-to-face with a Stadium Arcadium vinyl stuck to my wall. I laugh as I imagine what my seven-year-old self would think of me. She’d roll her eyes. Not Red Hot Chili Peppers. Fourteen years later, it’s my favorite album. In fact, if I had to drive around with one disc lodged in my make-believe CD player forever, it’d be Stadium Arcadium.
My redefined relationship with the Red Hot Chili Peppers became the catalyst for my adoration for music. Connecting with the music I listen to became the creative force through which I shaped my identity. My infatuation with music is my source of vital engagement, an impetus for exploring a life of connection and meaning. It’s a medium for self-expression and my vessel for exploring interpersonal relationships. When I hear Anthony Kiedis start singing in my headphones, suddenly I’m in the backseat of my dad’s Volvo, immersed in the energy of rock music. But now, it’s not agitation that recalibrates my mood, but rather a sense of gratitude for the years I spent with my dad. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were—and still are—a bridge to connect us.
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
The music I listen to holds my memories and fosters new ones. I listen to “Playground” by Flipturn, and I’m back in the library with my friends from freshman year when I heard it first. I text my best friend and remind her how awesome Flipturn is. She matches my enthusiasm each time. I turn on “Humongous” by Declan McKenna and I’m in New York City for the first time, nauseated by the skyscrapers and comforted by my fearless sister. I’m reminded of a time I realized music was pivotal to my well-being. I overhear the coffee shop play “Treat You Better” by Rüfüs du Sol and I’m 19, struck by the dizziness of falling in love.
Image Courtesy: Olivia Hansen
Music brings people together. It transcends differences, inspiring connection and meaning. My dad and I still rave about the Red Hot Chili Peppers. This time, I’m in the passenger seat, showing him Greta Van Fleet, and he’s telling me how Thom Yorke wrote “How to Disappear Completely.” Suddenly, a three hour drive is not enough time to talk about Oasis getting back together. There’s just always something to talk about.
Strike Out,
Writer: Olivia Hansen
Editor: Naina Chauhan
Known by most as Liv, or “cool and chill girl,” Olivia Hansen is a writer for Strike Magazine GNV. In her spare time, she’s probably rewatching Avatar the Last Airbender, and, well, if she isn’t doing that, then someone check in on her. Instagram: oliviaahansen
