In a little less than a month, I’ll be turning 40 years-old. As this has been a year of relative silence from me, (as my day-to-day responsibilities have grown and the endurance with which I can pursue my passions, namely Letters From A Tapehead, have become nil), I’ve been faced with an inbox brimming with evidence that I may have reached some level of irrelevance, that my experience, understanding, and ideas regarding music may be outdated. It seems the natural conclusion when you’re well past the point of no return, unable to bargain with your record collection or penchant for late nights at any number of venues for a few more years of connection. I’ve been pondering what it means to be faced with the likelihood of meaninglessness in music's modern age; to be someone for whom music is no longer meant to target or embrace; to be a near-obsessive record fanatic sometimes confused by the so-called cream of pop's current crop. And, now, I get to be one of those guys: the aged ...

My Daddy’s a DJ... ...so nothing is his. An enthusiast’s view In an admirer’s biz. Fusing together A melodious muck. Arguing the difference Between the bad and the suck. Through dust and through board Are stacks of his wares. A collection of things And he knows what's there. From passion to fashion; From cut to create; Every song, every word, Every flaw, every date. My Daddy’s a DJ... A talent for zip. A fondness for pop, His achievements a blip. A platter of spin, A needle to spark. The conversation a blur, The relationship stark. Our connection not there, His attention remiss. Our bond's episodic As we hug or we kiss. I wage my rebellion, My path’s looking bright. His soundtrack is all He can offer my spite. My Daddy’s a DJ... And his passion’s missed out. Though expert in sound, His life is in doubt. His hours invested, His ears taking toll. His lack of a presence, Leaving a hole. I grew up too fast. My days turned to years. Hi...