Sorry, Sohan.

You shouldn’t have grown up with introverted parents in Western New York. This is what happens.

But bear with me for a moment.

I’ve had a front row seat to something special, something that has flooded the household with all sorts of tunes.

Your mom and I have wondered for years if this was meant to be a gift for us or if it was meant to be shared.

In all honesty, our joy has already been delivered.

You, as a man, have opted to share. (In even more honesty, we love that decision.)

That gets me to now, September 4, 2026, the day you officially released your first single, not including the ones you sent out in boomerang fashion.

It’s called “Him Instead”.

After spending a decade and a half listening to you tinker, I didn’t know what to expect.

I’ve heard you shredding Beethoven on the piano.

And I’ve heard you doing Brubeck on the sax.

Just to please me (but not the neighbors), you banged out some grunge on the drums.

When you took a keyboard to Boston to dabble in funk, you came back playing the guitar instead.

And then I heard those Green Day covers—on the bass.

More recently, you decided to learn a new instrument, the kind that requires vocal chords.

All this, over time, has made its way through the filter that is your brain.

What could the result possibly be?

There’s only one word for it: Sohan.

As your vocals continue to meet your innate musicianship, and as my vocals (otherwise known as unsolicited comments) continue to drift into the background, something tells me that your mom and I won’t be the only ones who know what you can do.

No matter what, thank you for giving me my favorite song from Rochester.

The post My Favorite Song From Rochester (NY) appeared first on ComposeMD.

That includes me, the wannabe coastal elite with the superiority complex.

It comes with the territory, I suppose, when your formative years are in a place like Connecticut.

That’s where I “met” Dolly Parton the caricature, the one with the blonde wig, feminine silhouette, and love for attention.

In my world of conformity and college degrees, I had her all figured out.

My world, however, was not particularly worldly.

I learned this in Missouri, courtesy a girlfriend who never could get rid of me, resulting in an invitation to her Appalachian hometown of Williamson, West Virginia.

There, Dolly Parton, born just a few hours away in Sevier County, Tennessee, figuratively took my hand.

She knew what I saw—coal mines, outhouses, tobacco, and poverty.

And she showed me, slowly, what else there was to see—intellect, sunshine, music, and creativity.

Eventually, at the local bowling alley, along with gutters and pins, I saw entrepreneurship and ingenuity.

That, of course, was just the beginning.

Armed with a few degrees, I entered the real world, fully understanding concepts like feminism thanks to a women’s studies class.

I had read Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan and intellectualized a New-York-City version of progress.

Then, Dolly, via Sarah Smarsh, showed me a different version of feminism.

In this version, the word was never uttered—it was lived.

It came with all sorts of humor, self-deprecation, and independence.

Prose, in this case, was replaced by lyrics and business ventures.

That education, as time moved on, began to blend with my son’s education.

And Dolly, as she tended to do, gave me yet another hand.

As I grappled with a question—what is a kid of Indian origin raised without religion by doctor parents in the Northeast doing at a Christian school known for music in the middle of Tennessee—she was there with an answer.

It was August 2025, and Dolly: A True Original Musical—destined for Broadway—was having its world premier at Belmont University, my son’s school of choice.

As I soaked in the familiar life and the familiar tunes, I took solace in one of Dolly’s simple quotes:

You’ll never do a whole lot unless you’re brave enough to try.

Twelve months later, in August 2026, as I dropped my son off in Nashville for year two, Dolly herself was just down the street—at Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center.

Her time had come, but her hand, and her words, will always remain.

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Two years earlier, I had moved with the family to Rochester, New York, tattooed metaphorically with the word success.

The cookie-cutter house in the suburbs simply sealed the deal.

That’s when, according to the script, I was scheduled to shift my focus.

First, of course, would be the car.

And next, as I was told, would come the country club.

Instead, on a misty day about a decade and a half ago, I found myself hiding in a musty corner.

The place was called the Record Archive, and I had just landed on a bin of $1 vinyl. It was next to the T-shirts, which at that point in my trajectory fit rather well.

A few years later, the place would add beer and wine, all for no membership fee.

Needless to say, the hourglass of life had been flipped, and there was no stopping the hipster sand.

The hair started to change color. Some landed on the floor.

By necessity, T-shirts were replaced with sweatshirts.

The Post Malone song “Circles” began to remind me of my eyes.

And most importantly, the shorts gained pockets.

The toddler, well, he ended up taller than me—in Middle Tennessee.

That’s where, sometime in 2026, this story really picked up speed.

The new chapter began with a one-stop flight followed by a Waymo ride.

I said bye to the imaginary driver and took a look around the capital of Tennessee. Eyes closed, I visualized the wave of economic uplift, and suddenly, I embraced adulthood.

I began to snatch up property and talk insurance, equity, and rental income.

Then, to display relaxation, I dabbled in label-approved country music and the Gulch, adjusting my blazer to make sure Nashvillians knew what was up.

Just kidding.

Here’s what really happened.

I took a look around the capital of Tennessee, realized my left pocket had a hole in it, and marveled at the brilliance of having backup pockets just below that one.

I proudly moved the pen I had just bought from Third Man Records to secure territory, praising Jesus—make that Jack White.

After stepping into a honky-tonk and absorbing a few tunes, I had a nagging sense that I could do better.

I remembered the alternative newsweekly I had seen earlier:

Because Nashville is so much more than honky-tonks and bachelorettes…

And, like a good hipster, I crossed the Cumberland River to East Nashville.

I nabbed a slice at Five Points Pizza for $4.25 and washed it down with an IPA.

I eagerly made my way to the next stop, one that, it could be said, was written. It had to be a record store, and it had to be called Grimey’s.

I hit the checkout hard—the proud progressive that I am—with a retro music mag from 1987 for $1.99.

My wife, on the lookout for a different type of progress, looked at me with disgust and said, I prefer the first version.

The post I’m a Hipster in Dad Shorts appeared first on ComposeMD.

I know what it’s like to be misunderstood.

I am from the Rust Belt, after all.

But you—I get the sense that you don’t even know who you are.

It started in 1796, when you joined the Union, as in became a state.

Your eventual capital, Nashville, was even named after a Revolutionary War hero.

But then, in 1861, you pulled a South Carolina and left to join the wannabe country with the copycat flag. You were confused, as East Tennessee wanted no part of secession.

Of course, like a little sh*t, you came crawling back.

And ever since then, say 1865, you’ve stayed confused as hell.

You and Nathan Bedford Forrest gave us the Ku Klux Klan.

You also gave us some of the best HBCUs the country has known.

Like most US states, you treated women like second-class citizens.

By being the 36th state to ratify the 19th Amendment, you also gave women the right to vote.

You prosecuted John Scopes for teaching evolution.

Then you did God’s work at Oak Ridge by helping make the first atomic bomb.

You’ve provided a safe haven for climate skeptics.

You’re also a leader in nuclear and hydroelectric power.

You became the home of the lefty Al Gore, whose wife, Tipper, tried to stifle artists and their lyrics.

You’re also the home of the right-wing nut job Marsha Blackburn, who has made a career of supporting artists.

It’s safe to say you’re into the Bible—I have firsthand knowledge.

You’ve also opened your arms to the largest Kurdish community in North America—it prefers the Quran.

Nashville has gone from a shade of blue to really damn blue.

It presides over a state that has gone from a battleground to really damn red.

You have no state income tax.

But you’re obsessed with consumption tax.

You love your hot chicken.

And you apparently like chicken vindaloo as well.

But despite it all, Tennessee, you are still a state that preserves the past.

Just ask your transplants who work at Oracle and Amazon.

Sincerely,

Khan Trae Dick Shin

The post Dear Tennessee: Who Are You Anyway? appeared first on ComposeMD.

But I have learned a few things.

When you have a kid who shoots hoops like this, it might be time to look for other talents.

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And if you stumble upon this, buy a piano.

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Then, rather than harp upon the fact that you ain’t watching varsity sports, embrace the fact that they serve beer at those School of Rock concerts.

We’ll call it Parenting 101.

Yet in the case of the Rust Belt, the parents have been emotionally abusive.

Let’s take a look at Ohio.

From the mid-1900s to 2020, the city of Cleveland lost 542,184 residents.

Over the same time span, Cincinnati went down by 194,681.

Dayton shed 124,688; Toledo bled 112,947; and Akron said bye to 99,882.

Envision that kid playing basketball.

Now envision talking about that shot, over and over.

Call The New York Times and have them write an article on it—followed by another.

Go ahead and make a documentary—followed by another.

Finally, call the kid stupid—again.

To repeat, I’m no expert, but there could be a plan B.

Let’s go back to Ohio.

From 1950 to today, the state’s population has increased from 7.9 million to 11.9 million.

That makes it the nation’s seventh most-populated state (with the seventh-largest state GDP).

The capital, Columbus, has added 562,495 residents over the past 75 years, its metro area growing by 1.7 million.

Picture that piano.

Add some drums and a bass guitar.

Find a School of Rock—ask your wife to drive to the shows.

Have the kid start an Instagram account and dabble in TikTok.

Finally, send him to Tennessee.

Meanwhile, start a blog about this sh*t.

Write a few indie books.

You might still suck at parenting, but at least no one will notice.

The post What Parenting Taught Me About the Rust Belt appeared first on ComposeMD.

I was supposed to be working—or doing the dishes. For that matter, anything else would have sufficed.

But as a writer, even of the uncompensated variety, daydreaming is a prerequisite for rolling the pen on paper.

And on this particular day, the thoughts took on a life of their own.

December 2, 1859. Charles Town, West Virginia. The place was still part of Virginia, whose western cousin didn’t exist yet. That’s when the abolitionist John Brown was hanged for raiding a federal armory in Harpers Ferry. So much for the slave rebellion he was trying to incite.

Wait, whatever happened to Angie Everhart? Remember her—the redhead model who was in that Schwarzenegger movie Last Action Hero (and a ton of other stuff)?

I briefly looked at the blank computer screen and noticed the song playing in the background.

Chrissie Hynde did have a fantastic voice.

That show Providence was pretty good. I wonder what Melina Kanakaredes is up to these days.

I looked back at the still-blank screen.

How cool would it be to win a Pulitzer Prize? Rita Dove won the Pulitzer for Poetry. I think she was the United States Poet Laureate or something.

She must have been like the LeBron James of poetry.

Man, those NBA Finals between LeBron and Steph Curry were so good.

I stared at the computer and noted the music again.

The Black Keys weren’t very good live. I still like them though.

That was nuts in second grade when we all huddled around the TV in the classroom to watch the launch of the Space Shuttle Challenger. And then they just ushered us out of the room without saying a word. Poor Judith Resnik.

James Harrison was undrafted?! He was such a dominant linebacker for the Steelers.

My wife called and asked what I was doing.

“Uh, making money online,” I blurted out, hoping she wouldn’t check the bank account any time soon.

I sat back and wondered.

Had I just had the daydream from hell?

Or was it from Akron, Ohio?*

—

*Everyone mentioned was born in and/or spent spent significant time in Akron.

The post My Daydream From Hell appeared first on ComposeMD.

But let me tell you something—aside from my hair, clothes, and mindset, I live on the cutting edge of pop culture.

So when the former editor of Plethora of Pop—Buddy Gott—asked for submissions to his new publication, I viewed it as an opportunity to let my true colors shine.

The publication is called PubBeat, and the challenge was simple: Pick a year that contained a lot of music you love and then write a piece in which you share multiple songs from that year.

Yes, 1971 did give us “Stairway to Heaven” and “What’s Going On.” The year did also capture the sounds of the decade of my birth. But who do you think I am—some sort of Rust Belt nostalgia guy?

Then there’s 1991, which gave us “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “Losing My Religion.” But the years of teenage angst are long gone. Do I look like the type of dude who would give up his day job to blog or something?

No, the only year that fits, the one that captures the new joyful me, is 2014.

By that year, I was fully entrenched in the culture of suburbia, talking playsets, weed killers, and grill covers. I was…

“Happy” by Pharrell Williams”

Granted, the decision to grow roots in Upstate New York had raised a few eyebrows, particularly among the coastal elites I had left behind. But my wife and I knew that in stumbling upon Rochester, we had found a…

“Dark Horse” by Katy Perry featuring Juicy J

Life was a little slower and a little simpler. It seemed like we were surrounded by people who had collectively decided no more counting dollars, we’ll be…

“Counting Stars” by OneRepublic

Of course, the fact that the only thing outsiders knew about Rochester was lake-effect snow did get irritating at times. Eventually, however, I learned to…

“Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift

Because deep down, I had an inkling the snide comments were coming from the…

“Jealous” by Nick Jonas

And that’s why 2014 is my favorite year in music.

The post My Favorite Year in Music appeared first on ComposeMD.

But were you actually listening?

Once more, I’ll remind you of a few facts.

Western New York is separated from Canada—Ontario to be exact—by a measly river.

Sure, the Niagara River does have some impressive waterfalls, but at some points along its 36-mile course, it looks like a mere stream.

And when it comes to stanching the flow of people, ideas, and…love, that little stream doesn’t stand a chance.

Again, you’ve heard this in the past, but I do enjoy repeating myself.

Buffalo and Toronto share a public media network—Buffalo Toronto Public Media—that serves both Southern Ontario and Western New York.

Western New Yorkers are far more likely to get their morning cup of joe from Tim Hortons than from Dunkin’.

Labatt Blue, the most Canadian of beers, is brewed in part at the Genesee Brewery—in Rochester, New York.

Similarly, The Tragically Hip, the most Canadian of bands, has a popular tribute band—in Buffalo.

The Triple-A affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays plays in Buffalo. During COVID, the actual Toronto Blue Jays played in Buffalo.

Approximately 21 percent of Canada’s population lies within the 75-mile radius considered by the NFL to be the Buffalo Bills’ home market, explaining this map.

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But as this article so eloquently points out, all of the above is thin culture.

How about thick culture?

What is life truly like on the international border?

I asked if you were listening for a reason—because that’s where the answer lies.

The Buffalo Sabres of the NHL play both the Canadian and American national anthems before every game, even if that game is between two American teams.

On April 28, 2026, before a playoff matchup with the Boston Bruins, the microphone malfunctioned during the Canadian national anthem.

And here’s what 19,070 (mostly) Americans had to say about the situation.

Because that’s how we roll on an international border.

The post That’s How We Roll on an International Border! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Sadly, the words of the artists, like the subjects of which they sing, are often ignored—by non-Rust Belt bloggers, that is.

In other words, it’s time for another ranking, as determined by a committee of one wearing a sweatshirt in possible need of a cleanse.

Here are the 10 best Rust Belt songs of all time.

“North Country Blues” by Bob Dylan (1964)

Dylan, it could be said, hailed from the Rust Belt Extended. The Duluth, Minnesota, native knew all about the local iron ore that fed the steel mills on the lower Great Lakes—he also knew the good times weren’t meant to last forever.

Come gather ’round friends and I’ll tell you a tale

Of when the red iron ore pits ran plenty

But the cardboard filled windows and old men on the benches

Tell you now that the whole town is empty

“What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye (1971)

Along with other hot-button issues of the time, Motown’s Gaye was lamenting the concentrated poverty in black neighborhoods, an issue that plagues the Rust Belt to this day.

Don’t punish me with brutality

Come on talk to me

So you can see

What’s going on

“Working Man” by Rush (1974)

Yes, Rush hailed from the Canadian side of the Great Lakes, but when you’re anywhere near Hamilton (Ontario), that’s Rust Belt as hell. In fact, it was only after a disc jockey in Cleveland—Donna Halper—played this song on air that Rush landed a record deal, explaining the band’s dedication of its first two albums to her.

They call me the workin’ man

I guess that’s what I am

“My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders (1982)

Akron’s Chrissie Hynde went off to England to front the Pretenders. On a visit home, she discovered a reality she captured here—you might recognize the introductory bass line from The Rush Limbaugh Show.

I went back to Ohio

But my city was gone

There was no train station

There was no downtown

“Pink Houses” by John Mellencamp (1983)

Mellencamp, an Indiana man, sang about what he saw. And when he asked Ain’t that America? it wasn’t the fancy high-rises he was looking at.

And there’s winners and there’s losers

But they ain’t no big deal

‘Cause the simple man, baby, pays for the thrills, the bills

The pills that kill

“Born in the U.S.A.” by Bruce Springsteen (1984)

Don’t tell anyone from New Jersey, but The Boss knew the Rust Belt. Springsteen’s shout out to the US, like Mellencamp’s jam, wasn’t necessarily about the glamorous part.

Down in the shadow of the penitentiary

Out by the gas fires of the refinery

I’m ten years burnin’ down the road

Nowhere to run, ain’t got nowhere to go

“Like a Rock” by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band (1986)

Seger, born in Detroit, might have been singing about the fleeting nature of youth, but when a track becomes the anthem for Chevy trucks, it’s making the list of Rust Belt songs.

High above it all

I still believed in my dreams

—

Like a rock

“If I Had” by Eminem (1999)

The Detroit of the late 90s might not have been the most uplifting place, and Eminem—never one to mince words—let us know about it.

Life is like a big obstacle in front of your optical

To slow you down

And every time you think you’ve gotten past it

It’s gonna come back around to tackle you to the damn ground

“Hotel Yorba” by The White Stripes (2001)

Yet another Detroit guy, Jack White, sang about Hotel Yorba, a decidedly low-end rooming house later shut down by the city.

Well, it’s one, two, three, four

Take the elevator at the Hotel Yorba

I’ll be glad to see you later

All they got inside is vacancy

“Coal” by Tyler Childers (2011)

And finally, there’s Childers, whose home in Eastern Kentucky—aka coal country—qualifies as the other end of Rust Belt Extended. As this haunting tune points out, there was little glory in powering the nation.

Now let me tell you something about the gospel

And make sure that you mark it down

When God spoke out Let there be light

He put the first of us in the ground

Title image courtesy Tama66 (Pixabay)

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