Mom, me, and the time we listened to Neil Young and Crazy Horse in the driveway

Growing up, we were an NPR family. One Sunday night during middle school, after a church youth group session, my mom and I tuned into 'Songs for Aging Children,' a weekly radio show on WETA in Washington, D.C., as we drove home. The show ran for 20 years and took its namesake from a Joni Mitchell song, so they usually played singer-songwriters from the 60s and 70s, mostly folk music.

That night, they were playing Neil Young's Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere on the radio with some fun facts about the album and its history between each track. My mom's excitement was palpable; she earnestly, yet matter-of-factly, declared Neil Young's collaboration with Crazy Horse as her favorite Neil Young era. As she talked about it, her eyes shimmered with fond memories. She cranked up the volume as 'Cinnamon Girl' began to play, knowing that I likely had never heard it until right then.

She was right.

We didn’t talk much during the ride; instead, she just smiled, sang along, and reminisced about loving this album in college. I listened as actively as possible, captivated by what I heard. We didn't even make it past "Down by the River" before getting home. We listened to the end of the song in the driveway. Then she shut off the ignition and we got out of the car to go about the evening.

Listening to Neil Young and Crazy Horse with my mom felt like that comforting first sip of hot cocoa on a snowy day. It was such a warm and cozy feeling. My mom was a middle school music teacher, and I had never heard her listen nor really express much interest in Neil Young or that generation of artist, besides the occasional John Fogarty or Cat Stevens song. I don’t really remember what her general music curriculum entailed, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't playing Neil Young in class for her 7th graders and 8th graders.

During this car ride home, rocking out to Neil Young and Crazy Horse helped me see my mom in a new light. She was still Mom, but also a pal, someone with whom I could now freely exchange opinions. Her enthusiasm for Neil Young and Crazy Horse's greatness struck a chord. She was stoked when that album played on the radio during our drive home. It sparked joy in the way only great music can. She wanted to share that rock 'n roll rollercoaster with me—a teenager just beginning to form a distinct worldview and develop my own tastes in music and art.

It was a cool moment with my mom, and left a long impression on me that I've only recently started unraveling. Look, I agree with her: Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere is a masterpiece. I loved hearing those warm and fuzzy Fender Strat guitar riffs accompany Neil’s scruffy, soothing voice while he throttled through those wonderful songs. I still think the cocktail of poetry and rock 'n' roll on that album is pure diesel, making me want to punch the air in delight every time I listen to it. It's always going to be a personal favorite.

A couple weeks later, I even bought the CD at FYE in the mall with money I made from cutting lawns or whatever odd jobs I did for a little cash as an angsty teenager back then. It was a departure from the Blink 182, 311, and Sublime albums I was stacking at the time. I've been hooked on Neil Young and Crazy Horse since then.

But more importantly, I loved how I could share music with my parents. This became a two-way street in our relationship, which remains an important thru-line. Since they’re both music teachers, their tastes in music rubbed off on me from an early age. From jazz and bluegrass to rock 'n roll and Broadway—including works by John Philip Sousa—their eclectic tastes exposed me to a world of music that wasn't defined by one genre, just sheer expression. As long as the notes are played with passion (and mostly in tune, with some structure), good music is just good music at the end of the day. Whether it’s going to a Phish show or Broadway together, we both know we’re going to laugh, have an adventure, and be wowed by a good time.

In honor of Mother's Day, I found myself reflecting on this core memory over breakfast this morning, reminded me of how I used to submit drawings of my mom to our local newspaper's Mother's Day contests. I don't recall us ever talking about Neil Young since, except maybe when I told her about seeing him solo last year at the Greek in Los Angeles, and how it wasn't the same as it would have been with Crazy Horse.

Still, it's a cherished memory, perfectly capturing the joy, creativity, and sense of adventure that has defined our relationship over the years.

As a child of the ‘70s, I knew my mom was cool. But now, as I approach midlife myself, with my own tastes and opinions on these matters, I can appreciate how she was Neil Young and Crazy Horse cool — a special kind I only now fully recognize.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.