TRAUMA DUMPING

On our final drive together, before cancer took him, I played my father High Vis. Getting burritos and cruising down to Ocean Beach was our ritual whenever I was home in San Francisco, whether it was one of those signature overcast gloomscapes the Sunset District marinates in, or—like that day—a rare burst of sunshine. On these trips with my dad, he always wanted me to show him new music. Despite being born in 1954, he managed to never get old in the sense of rejecting new shit. Turns out the last band I’d get to show him was High Vis.