One balmy evening this past summer, I was hanging out in the bustling courtyard of a bar under the Williamsburg Bridge, celebrating a friend’s thirtieth birthday. I was having a nice enough time making small talk with various partygoers—until a stranger asked what new music I had been listening to. The trains above screeched to a halt. Everyone at the party fell silent and looked my way. I racked my brain. Surely there was something cool and obscure I could turn this person on to. And … I had nothing. The truth was that most of what I’d been enjoying fell into two categories: Old Dad (Tom Waits, Lucinda Williams, Simon & Garfunkel) or New Dad (Vampire Weekend, Sturgill Simpson, Solange).
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