7 songs for a maybe-not-quite happy Father’s Day playlist

Leo Tolstoy famously observed that while happy families share similarities, unhappy ones are distinct in their struggles. Thinking about it, family bonds truly do unfold in countless, often complex, ways – some loudly, some quietly, many simply blending into the background.

Sometimes, the deepest family wounds aren't from outright abandonment, but from the subtle, persistent hurts inflicted by overprotection, unspoken expectations, pride, or even love expressed in ways that miss the mark – too little, too late, or in the wrong form.

Not every household celebrates Father's Day with fanfare. For many, it's a day filled with complicated emotions, where words might fail and silences linger. This playlist isn't a simple tribute or a harsh critique; instead, it's a collection of songs that navigate the intricate relationships many of us experience or have inherited.

Consider these tracks a space to sit with what remains unresolved or what has closed, what still stings or gently lingers, and to acknowledge the courage it takes to name that pain in the first place.

Let's start with "Tahanan" by indie folk band Munimuni. Their signature "makata pop" shines through in this song, where the Filipino word for "home" takes on multiple layers of meaning. Here, it's not just a place to return to, but also a gentle command to find solace.

Lines like "Hanggang dito na lamang ang 'yong mga luha / tahan na" (Your tears end here / please stop now) feel like exit wounds, suggesting that grief can be held, like a hand, without needing to be fixed. The song doesn't rush you out of sadness; instead, it sits beside it, offering comfort like cooing to a child. Munimuni's steady harmonies feel like a supportive arm around your shoulder, quietly promising presence ("umaakay sa'yo / nandito lang ako" - guiding you / I am just here) even if you're not ready to forgive or remember fondly. If this day brings sorrowful tears, let this song be a companion, especially if you're still searching for what healing looks like, knowing only that you long for a space you can truly call "home," a place where peace might eventually arrive.

Next up is "Kyoto" by Phoebe Bridgers. This critically acclaimed indie rock track pairs a surprisingly brisk horn section and upbeat rhythm with lyrics that slowly unravel, sung in Bridgers' low voice, the words edged more with weariness than outright anger. She never needs to raise her voice as she details her father's various shortcomings – from broken promises of sobriety to late birthday greetings.

"I don’t forgive you / but please don’t hold me to it," she sings, a line that layers meaning. What initially seems like distance quickly reveals itself as the soft scarring of longing. This isn't a song about a single explosive moment of disappointment; it's about the slow accumulation of neglect that gradually erodes a child's trust.

The song reminds us that fathers aren't always monstrous villains; sometimes, they simply weren't present when they were needed. While some songs wallow in grief, "Kyoto" chooses to shrug, pack its bags, yet leaves the lights on, perhaps for a reconciliation that, if it ever happens, might arrive awkwardly.

Moving on to "Waltz of Four Left Feet" by Manila-based act shirebound. While often interpreted as a song about unrequited romantic love, it seamlessly translates into the language of family relationships – think of missed father-daughter dances, hands never held in milestone photographs, important questions about growing up left unanswered.

Delivered in shirebound's characteristic lo-fi hush, the song captures the wistful grace of someone trying to find peace with being on the periphery, whose love asks for nothing in return. Can repeating the chorus enough times – "Hindi ko naman yata ikakamamatay / kung hindi ko mahawakan ang iyong kamay" (I probably won't die / if I don't get to hold your hand) – somehow make it true?

The melody itself, a beautifully awkward riff hovering on the edge of something more complete, sways like a hesitant slow dance between two people who yearn to get it right but can't quite sync up. It embodies the act of trying anyway. Unlike many songs with similar themes that might dramaticize their grief, this track avoids grand declarations or soaring crescendos. Instead, it remains committed to its stripped-down tune, eerily echoing the experience of loving from a distance, accepting partial presence, and dancing on, even when every step feels slightly off.

Let's shift gears with Little Simz's "I Love You, I Hate You." Instead of a melodramatic ballad, this track delivers its profound reckoning through urgent bars and orchestral depth. It's a stark, honest look at the first man many of us are taught to idolize. The song confronts the emotional fallout of paternal absence and human fallibility with striking clarity, never letting anger overshadow insight.

What emerges is not a simple villain, but the result of a difficult humanization process for the person who perhaps taught you about love by its very absence. Here, the father is seen not as a myth, but as a man who was once a boy. The daughter, too, isn't just a child in need but a woman grappling with inherited silence.

Yet, even as the hurt unfolds, mercy is present. Not the kind that grants easy absolution, but the kind that views both figures – father and daughter – as flawed individuals trying, failing, and trying again to connect. The raw anger in "Is you a sperm donor or a dad to me?" sits alongside the poignant pity in "He was just once a boy, I often seem to forget," neither sentiment negating the other. Holding both allows the idealized image to crumble without breeding contempt. There's a powerful lesson in her verses about how the cycle of generational pain can be broken through the challenging, everyday act of truly seeing each other as human beings.

Moving back to Filipino music, Rey Valera’s song “Walang Kapalit,” like many of its era, immediately conjures a sense of nostalgia. It feels like a track best heard on cassette or hummed during a slow ride home.

The music is unhurried, and the iconic Manila sound artist's voice carries the quiet ache of someone who has learned that love in this world, especially familial love, is most intensely felt, and most painful, as duty. It's a song of complete giving with no expectation of return, a form of martyrdom so deeply ingrained in Filipino homes that it resonates with ancestral history.

Its lyrics offer glimpses into how devotion is often passed down – reminding us how love, particularly within families, is often expressed through sacrifice, silence, and an inability to voice one's own exhaustion. It might bring to mind the father who, bound by traditional masculinity, never spoke words of love to his children, or the child who learned to endure, having inherited a love that perpetually gave but never dared to ask for anything back.

Sade's "Babyfather" is sung as if conjuring a figure from thin air, her voice a smooth balm pressed onto a wound. Written for her daughter, the song subtly references two men – the child's father and stepfather – blending them into a soft, blurred image. Her voice exudes certainty, introducing a baby to the fathers who love them, yet it invites listeners to ponder: do you and your mother perceive the same man?

As the lines repeat, "Your daddy knows you’re a flame," and "your daddy love come with a lifetime guarantee," the song shimmers with a warmth that seems to conceal something cooler beneath the surface. Part lullaby for the child, part reflection addressed to the woman holding memories of a man in her heart, "Babyfather" might offer comfort to some. For others, the mantra-like affirmations may feel like a mother's labored attempt to smooth over a truth too complex to articulate.

Regardless, like much of Sade's work, it's a stunning, almost haunting, track born from the depths of love.

Finally, we arrive at "paruparo" by syd hartha. This song exemplifies hartha's nuanced songwriting style with its delicate repetition and layered lyrics, tracing the timeless journey of transformation through the enduring metaphor of a butterfly emerging from a burst chrysalis.

The song tells the story of choosing to grow, even when the belief in that growth is fragile. Part of its beauty lies in not romanticizing the butterfly; it's portrayed as vulnerable, sometimes doubted, constantly in motion. Even flight, the song warns, doesn't guarantee freedom from the pull of the earth. "Sa laya ng lipad, maaari pa rin na sumayad" (In the freedom of flight, one can still touch the ground), her voice echoes.

To grow without a father's warmth – or perhaps worse, in the shadow of his harm, as the songwriter has shared – doesn't mean your growth must be attributed to his, or anyone else's, negativity. This song offers not retaliation, but something more powerful: a quiet refusal to be defined or shaped by absence.

syd hartha resists the weight of what she leaves unnamed, allowing something brighter to take root in difficult ground. Her lyrics blossom with the maturity of someone who understands that survival isn't always loud, and flight isn't always grand or majestic. Sometimes it's slow, uneven, maybe a little lopsided, but in all its paths, it is still flight. And "paruparo" teaches us how to carry that inherent fragility with grace and dignity.

So, listen. Whether Father's Day feels truly happy, complicated, or somewhere in between, perhaps these tracks can offer a moment of connection. Maybe none resonate, maybe just one does. Take what feels right for you, and leave the rest. Listen closely to the music that plays within your own story – of the past and the hopes for the future.