I sing along with the Lemonheads. I skip the line about nipple piercing

Who’s that?” daughter number one asks me. I am driving her home from volunteering at hospital radio. Her favourite thing.

She’s referring to the sweet, raggedy three-piece making a noise on the CD player. “The Lemonheads,” I tell her. “It’s A Shame About Ray.” [1]

“Don’t think I’ve heard that before.”

“Really? I love this album.”

I sing along with Evan Dando on Alison’s Starting To Happen. I skip the line about nipple piercing. Well, daughter number two is also in the car. Otherwise, I’m word perfect.

Daughter number one, possibly seeking to distract me from murdering a fine tune, starts talking about Dinosaur Jr. Every day she is discovering new music. “Do you like them?”

“I never liked J Mascis’s voice. Or was it Lou Barlow’s? Can’t remember.”

Whoever it is, she’s not keen either. I like these moments when our tastes coalesce.

But I can’t get past the idea that she doesn’t know the Lemonheads. I always play this record. Don’t I?

Actually, maybe not. The more I think about it the more I realise I don’t play it that often. And when I do – and I’m not singing along – it makes me think back to when the record came out. The start of the 1990s when I was still in my 20s. Just. It was 1992, the year I spent most of my time – or so it seemed – driving from Stirling to north Wales to see J in Bangor where she had gone to study. The Lemonheads on the portable cassette player.

I would drive down for weekends, five hours and a bit each way. Not every weekend but enough to not have to look at the road map. Past Glasgow and Gretna, halfway down England, then a right turn around Chester.

It seemed to matter. That year was the only time I ever thought we were in trouble as a couple because J seemed so distant [2]. Maybe I don’t want to remember that time too much. Maybe I only play this album when I’m in the car myself.

Nineteen ninety-two. Driving for hours. The car breaking down. The car getting broken into. Reversing the car into someone else’s in a street in Bangor. Waking up in the town thinking I might not be welcome back. Phone calls that trailed off into silence. Empty nights in my Stirling flat alone [3]. Imagining a life without J in it. Frankly, I’m surprised I play the Lemonheads at all.

We got married in 1993. Easter. Guess she wasn’t as distant as I thought. We didn’t play Dinosaur Jr at the reception. J never cared for them either.

Back in the present, the Lemonheads have started singing Mrs Robinson. Their Simon and Garfunkel cover. “I know this one,” daughter number one says.