Blues was a big part of my soundtrack growing up. From Johnny Adams to Johnny Winter (there’s probably someone who starts with Z, but they’re not coming to mind), my parents were into all of it.

One story my dad liked to tell was how when he was in college at the University of Illinois, he visited Muddy Waters in the hospital. Waters had been in a terrible car crash—three people died; two other band members were injured—and was hospitalized in Champaign. My dad and some friends went to visit him in the hospital, even though my mom says no visitors were supposed to be allowed. I’m not sure how I’d feel about a bunch of random long-haired strangers descending on me in my hour of busted ribs and shattered pelvis, but apparently the guy was quite cordial—and probably at least a little taken aback that these scraggy white brats even knew who he was.

My parents’ big thing was electric blues. Electric Mud and The Electric B.B. King were in super heavy rotation from as early as I can remember well into my grade school years. My dad cried and went into mourning when Paul Butterfield died in my junior year of high school. My mom counts meeting Gatemouth Brown among one of her more enjoyable social experiences on a Blues Cruise some time in the 1990s.

It rubbed off on me, to some degree. I guess I drove my roommates crazy playing my parents’ music, because at one point my best friend came into our room flailing her arms: “The blues are fine, but you are depressing the hell out of me! Put on Depeche Mode or the Smiths or something so we can cheer up!”

When Elvin Bishop popped up on the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack, I was delighted, as was my mother—“More money for him!”—while my father was a tad sour—“But it’s his worst song!”

Unfortunately, this gateway did not do much to draw in my son, who apparently shares my roommate’s opinion, although I think he might have some good memories of going to teeny local festivals with my dad to listen to music. It is equally possible that all he remembers is being hot and eating popcorn. He is his father’s boy in that regard: “Not awful, I guess, but not my favorite.”

Needless to say, most of my blues listening these days happens in the car, usually on the longish hauls to and from my mom’s house each weekend. The Sirius blues channel is on my favorites list, and it all sounds pretty great through fancy new-tech speakers. Not quite as impressive as my parents’ spending-priority sound system from my childhood (they had speaker boxes taller than I was. But it’s way better than it all sounded in my dorm—hey, maybe that was my roommate’s problem!