Singing the BluesPosted: January 11, 2010
I hate the music my kids listen to. Actually “hate” is too weak a word. Despise? Loathe? Abhor? I realize parents are supposed to dislike the music their kids love. It’s a generational rite-of-passage: “Turn down that lousy rock ‘n roll! And get a haircut while you’re at it.”
And if they were listening to heavy metal or even rap I think I would be better able to deal with it. At least that’s supposed to annoy parents. But, no, they and all their friends like Top 40 dreck. Though this is really a misnomer since the radio station they listen to — Kiss 108 — only plays about seven songs. Over and over and over again. I could only imagine the relief if they actually rotated 40 songs through the mix.
Where did I go wrong? As they were growing up I always played what I considered quality music at home and in the car. I hoped this would rub off and they’d be the ones teaching their friends all about BB King and Buddy Guy; Van Morrison and U2; Jimmy Buffett and George Thorogood. But instead it’s all about Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift and Jay-Z and Britney Spears. Ugh. To their credit they don’t like the Jonas Brothers but that’s small consolation.
To make matter worse, Bryna likes much of the same music. Which means I get out-voted on family car trips. They’re all dancing to “Party in the USA” which makes me the ultimate “Party” pooper when I start to complain.
Fortunately they got me an i-Pod for Christmas. I used to have one but I dropped it into the Pocantico River in New York after going for a run with Delilah a couple of years ago. I went down to the river’s edge to let her get a drink when it fell in. I scooped it right back up but it was never the same again. Eventually it would play songs again but only the same two.
So when I have a moment I’ll load it back up with “good” music and pull out some ear phones. I’d much rather dance to the beat of my own drummer than the drummer for Lady Gaga.
Perhaps one day they’ll start listening to some of their dad’s “old person” music. Which at least can’t yet be called “Oldies.” Even though I’m often quite literally “Going to the Chapel, Baby” I’m not that old yet.