I'm hunched over the beat machine. The house creaks, but I don’t hear it. My family is asleep. A model airplane sits atop one of my speakers, wearing decades of dust.

I think of my father.

I hold a vivid memory of him telling 12-year-old me, choosing his words carefully, that he was feeling sad. That’s the word he chose: sad. There was another, more accurate word available, but either he thought I wouldn’t understand, or he didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying the word out loud to someone else makes it real.

I used to think his obsession with building model airplanes was just a hobby, a way to pass the time. But now, as I sit here, spending hours trying to get a sample to loop perfectly, parallels hit me and I’m forced to wonder if I make beats like he made airplanes.

My father was many things, but sad was not one of them.

This is my album.
This is The Sound of Model Airplanes.

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