The Day I Fell in Love with Music

Summer circa 1988 was alive, the world vibrating with possibility. I was a kid, squeezed in the backseat of my parents’ car with my brothers, windows down, warm breeze rushing through. The radio crackled, as it always did, until it hit—the song that rewired my soul. New Edition’s “If It Isn’t Love” blasted through the speakers, and in that moment, I fell hard for music, a feeling I’d later understand through Erick Sermon’s “Music” (2001), which put words to that deep, head-nodding love for a beat that takes you somewhere else.

The beat of “If It Isn’t Love” snapped like a live wire, those tight drums syncing with a funky bassline, the synths weaving in and out like pure energy. It was soulful, gripping, the kind of sound that makes your whole body move. My siblings were vibing, heads bobbing, fingers snapping…but for me, it was like the song reached inside and flipped a switch. I leaned forward, hands clutching the seat, heart racing as Bobby Brown’s voice soared—smooth, bold, singing about a love so raw it spoke to me, a kid who didn’t even know what love was yet.

“If it isn’t love, why do I feel this way?”

Those lyrics hit like truth, carrying a feeling I couldn’t name but knew was real. I started singing, quiet at first, glancing at my brothers to dodge any teasing, but soon I was all in, belting it out with Ralph, Ronnie, Ricky, and Mike, my voice catching their harmonies like I belonged. The beat pulsed in my chest, the melody wrapping me like a warm vibe. For the first time, I felt free—like I could rise above the backseat, above our small town, carried by the music to a place where the rhythm was everything.

We rolled through our town, past the corner store where we’d snag candy, the park where we’d race and mess around, the houses with their worn porches and stories we knew cold. But in that car, with New Edition’s groove and my brothers right there, I wasn’t just a kid. I was part of something bigger, like the music was a world I could live in. The rhythm had me swaying, my soul bouncing. I closed my eyes, picturing bright lights, a stage where I could pour out my heart, my brothers hyping me up.

That day, music became my escape, my joy, my way of finding myself. “If It Isn’t Love” wasn’t just a song; it was a spark that lit something permanent. It showed me music could make you feel understood, like someone out there knew your unspoken thoughts. I started digging through my parents’ cassettes, fighting my brothers for the Walkman, staying up late for Soul Train.