There always comes this moment at Christmastime where, quiet and caught with nothing to do on the sofa, food-filled and square-eyed from TV, my uncle asks the fateful question: "so, what have you been listening to?" Soon to be followed up with "what’s your album of the year?" I breathe, play it cool. “Ooh. Let me have a think”, and stall for time. Little does he know I’ve been preparing myself for this moment all year.

“Where do you even start with suggestions to a PhD-bearing, highly literary, Cambridge-educated uncle?”

Over these twelve months, I’ve been slowly readying myself for this quasi-intellectual-gladiatorial battle. All in good spirit of course, but where do you even start with suggestions to a PhD-bearing, highly literary, Cambridge-educated uncle? Uncles like what they like. Mine likes well-crafted prog rock; hints of metal that display a mastery of the guitar; Dream Theater, Biffy Clyro, Frank Zappa. My (albeit well-coordinated) armoury I have prepared—Irish jazz/RnB with a 90s garage twist, alternative piano rock, local trip-hop classics—won’t even make a dent. But the chess game is going well this year: he takes my opening gambit, tantalised by Warhaus’ Belgian chamber pop. I even make a big capture: the Ben Folds Five are a personal favourite from his glory days.

Then, the chess game is over – I step into a right hook. “Have you listened to Taylor Swift’s newest album?” he asks. Quick, a defence: a patterned coordination of “No, it’s just not my thing,” supplemented by “my friends like her though”. In response, he pours out praise for her songwriting, her acoustic sound, all polished with flawless production. He begins an exhibition on Apple Music, asking what my friends think of her new album – The Life of a Showgirl. Dizzied and desperate, I throw out a cheap counterattack: "Oh yeah, that one with the song about Travis Kelsey’s penis?" It’s a low-blow, I know, but he laughs me off in florid, essayistic prose.

“They’re songs which say I’m not afraid to write songs about celebs and sing them to their faces – songs that say don’t f*ck with me”

Goddamn. I’ve been out English-studented. His knowledge doesn’t simply encompass discography: he proves more than well-informed on public affairs, scandals, all of it. Charli XCX, Sabrina Carpenter, Jake Gyllenhall, Matty Healy. He swiftly sets out a comprehensive taxonomy of her diss tracks, of each undaunted moment – “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” is my personal favourite. He points to her powerful songwriting capacity manifesting itself early on: the lyrics of “Dear John” speak volumes, an unflinchingly targeted song negotiating the injustice of the 13-year age gap in her relationship with John Mayer, a lyrical journey of recognition, from ‘I should’ve known’ to ‘You should’ve known’. They’re songs which say I’m not afraid to write songs about celebs and sing them to their faces – songs that say don’t f*ck with me.

I wave my metaphorical white flag. “I see what you mean. A friend of mine used to write GCSE essays on her lyrics.” There’s a silence: it’s a strange moment for me. Then he offers to show me his album of 2025. I think, here’s the return to normality: a live album at a European concert hall, a couple hours of well-coordinated rock octet? He plays “Take Two” from Madison Cunningham’s Ace. From the small speaker of his iPad spill these diaphanous piano chords and swelling oboes, flights of bird-like flutes. Bristling out of percussive surges is Cunningham’s elegantly-controlled voice: her lyrics follow me home – ‘There’s no hill steeper / Than trying to get to equal.’

“I know it’s long dead. Only an artifact now, a technological elegy to the days of iTunes”

And it’s here, feet up on my desk, relistening to all fifty-three minutes of Cunningham’s finely crafted album, that my eyes settle on my dad’s old, electric-blue iPod Shuffle. Brushing the thin layer of dust that coats its cool metallic surface, I know it’s long dead. Only an artifact now, a technological elegy to the days of iTunes. But memories come pouring back of it being pressed into my hands, ears aching from hours of listening with earbuds too large for small ears. I remember Dizzee Rascal’s “Bonkers” cranked up to full, followed by the familiar opening of Chaka Khan’s “Ain’t Nobody”, LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem” eliding into the Kooks’ slow “Seaside”. Artists and anthems from disparate times and genres all mentally interlinked by this small, blue tech-relic. Nuyorican Soul, The Ting Tings, The Prodigy’s "Firestarter", Massive Attack, Soul II Soul, all shoulder-to-shoulder. Though he stays more towards the Pink Floyd end of things now, it was another surprising-Swift moment.

“A nineteen-year-old experiment comprised of dad’s skate punk anthems and mum’s sprinklings of Suede, Nitin Sawhney and Sheryl Crow”

Burned from my memory by the grey-matter-gauntlet of adolescence and brought back on by this low-tech iPod, these songs and their modern successors continue to mark my playlists. I could trace patterns of my listening: my consciously crafted music taste betrays its Darwinian origins. A nineteen-year-old experiment comprised of dad’s skate punk anthems and mum’s sprinklings of Suede, Nitin Sawhney and Sheryl Crow. Musical seeds sown long ago via CDs, cassettes and this small electric-blue box in the backseats of cars, pebbly beaches, hospital waiting rooms, rainy camping trips.

Sometimes it takes toe-to-toe battles between preferences, and sometimes it takes a backhand of your own biases. An incontrovertible epiphany: you’re a walking, talking, genetically-encoded cocktail of neurotransmitters, hardwired to appreciate certain systems of sound over others. This level of recognition is, believe it or not, incredibly grounding. And humbling. If there’s a lesson, it’s listen: to uncles, aunts, mums, dads, cousins, and grandparents. They might just tell you something about yourself. While you’re at it, listen to neighbours, acquaintances, strangers. Lean a little closer to the leaky AirPod of your next-door-neighbour on the bus. Dive into dust-ridden CD collections. What was the album of the year in 1989? The course of music taste never did run smooth.