My eight year old daughter likes the stations on the edges of satellite radio.

You know the stations at the far end of your presets that you chose, with music you like, but not the stuff you listen to all the time. The ones you usually land on when the regulars don’t have any good options.

It has become part of our morning routine for her to seek one of these out.

First, there was the affinity for the channel playing downtempo electronic and deep house. Maybe she wanted to start off her days in a relaxing way. Maybe she just needs more chill in her life.

Then there was a brief stint with Smokey Robinson’s emceed soul station.

She was bummed when they replaced 40s Junction with holiday favorites, but her jazz and standards came back.

Which leaves me in the car, after she climbs the steps onto the bus, listening to Buddy Clark and the Andrews Sisters, orchestral early Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Louis Jordan. (I am actually excited at how much Louis Jordan there is)

Some of it didn’t age well. Misguided lyrics or culturally inappropriate band names.

All of it speaks to the atmosphere of the time.

The yearning to be reunited with loved ones after the war. The desire to forget all worries in a night of dancing on the town. The hope that the one you love will return your affection.

The lyrics tell a story or hint at one just beyond the notes. Like the “great big mouse eating an onion and crying like a baby” that gave us pause in The Three Flames’ version of “Open the Door, Richard” – absurdity that’s just perfect for an eight year old’s imagination. And made me deep dive into the background of the black vaudeville skit which gave birth to the song.

It makes me dream of the dance halls of my grandmother’s youth. It makes me wonder about the artists of color who were forced to compromise their craft for crowd recognition. It makes me long for a time when the music was bigger than the artist.

What will our songs say about us?

We can only hope that eight year olds keep sticking to the fringes.