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Dad rock is video lucah artis indonesia maya estiyantya slippery concept. Ask a room of people for examples of "dad rock" bands, and you'll get an array of different answers. The definition of dad rock has been debated on Reddit threads and in think pieces. And frankly, it was a term I didn't think much about until I realized that, because of Bluey, I’ve finally fallen for this maligned music genre. 

To many, dad rock is defined as music your dad might listen to, which is not to say that it's not cool. But it is old and corny. Like your dad.

Growing up in the '80s, my concept of dad rock has been confined to musicians like John Cougar Mellencamp, Rod Stewart, The Eagles, Bruce Springsteen, and Van Halen — classic rock that my Boomer dad would turn the radio to. But a year or so ago, my TikTok FYP ambushed me with a jarring realization: To Gen Z, dad rock refers to bands that were popular when I was in high school.

It doesn't matter that many of these "dad rock" bands aren't even rock groups. Often, they fit into that murky '90s genre of "alternative" music, like Blink-182, Hoobastank, Rammstein, and The Prodigy. Still, I'm not a dad — or a parent at all — and these weren’t my bands, so I defiantly shook off the creeping implication that this shifting definition meant that I had become old and corny, tragically uncool... like a dad. Then, came the TikTok that proved my tipping point. 

Bluey's dad is an actual dad-rocker.

On October 6, TikTokker Zach Mander made a video where he pointed out that voice actor David McCormack isn't just the voice of Bluey's dad, Bandit. He's also the frontman of the Australian indie rock band Custard, "who were quite well-known in Australia in the '90s," according to Mander.

"But, if you primarily know Dave's voice as Bandit," Mander explained, "when you hear their music for the first time, it kind of messes with your brain."

Now, I love a fun fact. And I love '90s indie rock, where pop and punk, folk and emo thrashed together chaotically from track to track. So, I queued up Custard on Apple Music on a lark. I thought it would be amusing to listen to rock songs I could imagine being sung by the animated blue heeler who is a very good parent to his adorable puppies. I did not, however, expect to become obsessed with Custard.

I began to play their music before work, during work, on the subway, and during chores. At first, it was background noise as I did other things. Then, I began to listen to it expressly to dance around and feel McCormack's Aussie accent punch lyrics about love and ruin. (I only took a break from them to switch to Britney Spears's audiobook of The Woman in Me, because Michelle Williams won't be denied.) Custard has nine albums, released between 1992 and 2020. And I just kept hitting shuffle on the lot and bopping along.

Custard is a great band, Bluey aside.

Make no mistake: When you listen to Custard — new or old — McCormack's distinctive voice absolutely and unabashedly sounds like Bandit.

It is very easy to imagine the cartoon dog playing air guitar as he sings about couples getting into an argument ("Couple's Fight") or girls who just don’t get him ("Girls Like That (Don't Go For Guys Like Us)") — perhaps while his pups are down for nap.

There's some cheeky dissonance in that experience. But with a lot of tracks from the '90s, there's also a swell of nostalgia, as I relish the rowdy anxiety of the era's music. Custard has an alternative rock vibe that reminds me of Harvey Danger, who gave us the epic "Flagpole Sitta" — the panicky energy with a swagger earned by being a nerd who owns it. (See also: MC Chris.) Then, there are times when McCormack's voice leans more into an earthy yearning, sounding almost like Elvis Costello.

I began listening to Custard almost as a joke to amuse myself, or maybe so I could share the fun fact of its connection to the universally adored child's show (that grown-ups love too), Bluey. But I was soon hooked, and not just by the "vintage" tracks that would be understandably considered dad rock by those born outside the "1900s." Their 2020 album, Respect All Life Forms, bops with an irrepressible joy, even in its angsty tracks.

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Just like the emo and punk songs that throw me back into my mosh pit days, Custard fills me with joy and excitement. I feel lighter listening to it, younger, alive. But as this wasn't a band I was into in those days, it's not simply nostalgia. I love that McCormack is not solely defined by being the plucky papa pooch on Bluey. He is also an indie rocker, channeling that same voice into the passion and panic over love and loss and life that we just don't grow out of. He's not old and corny. He's only getting more interesting with age. (He even pops up as a voice in the trippy Adventure Time spinoff Fionna and Cake.)

For me, loving dad rock means growing up.

Through coming to appreciate Custard, I was forced to recognize why I'd initially rejected "dad rock." With middle age comes the threat of becoming not just boring and uncool but complacent. Smugly gathering dust as you wallow in what was while rebuffing what could be. Ironically, nervousness about accepting dad rock was less about what's cool and more about the fear of becoming stuck, like those dads who sneer at new music.

I do love a lot of the music, movies, and TV of my youth, even if as a professional critic I now can recognize how some of it is absolute trash. (I will still happily binge-watch slick studio slashers from the early '00s, though. Good and satisfying are not mutually exclusive concepts.) But being in touch with who you once were doesn't necessarily mean you're stagnating. My goal is to keep growing up as opposed to just growing old. That means exposing myself to new experiences so I can understand and appreciate things that might challenge me, be they new ideas, weird movies, or dad rock.

It's this striving to broaden my horizons that led me to Bluey. Well, that, and two giddy nibblings who are (rightfully) obsessed with the show that is essentially homemade cinnamon rolls as a cartoon. Then, getting into Bluey got me into Custard. And now Apple Music is suggesting other bands I might like, just as I'm now recommending the band to my friends, who in turn have other picks and playlists. And so my journey of discovery continues.

Unexpectedly, embracing dad rock — in this case, that means both music that appeals to contemporary dads and rock music made by an actual cartoon dad — meant embracing a new stage of being me. Perhaps to some, this might all seem "cringe." But honestly, it's hard to care when I’m bouncing around to Custard.