This conversation happened about two weeks before Bowie's death. It's been sitting in my notebook for a few months. Here you have it...
I’ve never truly
attempted to get my fourteen year old to abandon her music; the collective
music pulsating its way through a generation.
Trust me, as an old vinyl hoarder that once scoffed and shunned the
woeful lack of authenticity that the cassette offered up, I deeply appreciate
how these three and four minute vignettes will forever mark your life and take
you to a place where you were once eighteen and invincible. Forever young. Forever fearless. Forever the best version of yourself. Truth be told, it was never the best you, but
sentimentality cradles these versions in some false esteem.
Sadly, to cling
only to the music of your youth is awful.
We too easily assume that this music represents us. Not really.
I mean, I don’t smile when I hear Culture Club at the dentist’s office
because Boy George was a musical genius.
I smile because it takes me back to a Saturday car ride to Wildwood New
Jersey, tanked on testosterone and hope and youth. It was
a great day. So thank you Culture Club
for bookmarking the moment for me, but it takes a certain depth to appreciate
art, literature, and music that was never directly marketed to you and your
peers. As much as you love the music of
your day, it’s less about you and more about them…and then. This other stuff we pick up on our own? These strange sounds and words from
generations before? This is the stuff
that truly pulls you in. This is the
stuff that is much more uniquely you.
Those low, lonely tones of a Sinatra ballad? The first time I heard Nina Simone sigh about
being “In the Dark?” And the epiphany
that came with hearing Dylan snarl about being a Rolling Stone? Those are me.
Hall and Oates are fun, but just the soundtrack to a great run years
ago.
All this brings me
to the car radio wars. On a longer car
ride, there is only so much Drake I can listen to before I find myself
angry. And this Drake fellow seems like
a reasonably nice guy as far as celebrities go, but a handful of today’s hits
and I feel the need to punch someone.
When we talk about road rage, it is very possible that a high percentage
of road rage has to do with middle-aged men being subjected to the musical
trends of the day. I’m pretty certain
that when two guys get out of their cars and throw it down, much like listening
to a shell closely, you can hear Drake and Nicki’s names muttered in the
fray. To be fair, it is possible that
many teens practically jump out of the car about a half mile from the school
because they really don’t care about The Beatles vs. The Stones. So there you have it. The mind-numbing paradox of the radio
wars. Until this.
My fourteen year old and I decide to play a
game. Using Apple Music, we take
turns. One song from her Apple
Music. One from mine. And you have to explain why you like the
song. A little like Show-And-Tell. I know she would love to visit New York, so I
start with Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind.” I get to tell about my small, but eternal
moment of buying bagels at dawn while walking through Greenwich Village coming
home from a party. And this song came
over a tiny transistor radio dangling from the top of an all-night
newsstand. She asks questions about
9/11. We talk a little politics, middle-east
policy, and where I was when I heard about the towers falling.
Her turn. I listen to a Lana Del Rey song. Voice is a bit haunting. Not bad at all.
“I like how the
mellow beat goes against the lyrics,” she tells me.
Back to me. I go with Paul Simon’s “Loves Me Like a
Rock.” She laughs.
“Why a rock? Is his mom stupid?” I talk about the rock as a metaphor for
strength, rather than stupidity. I turn
a bit biblical and discuss the Rock of Gibraltar. So far, we’ve discussed politics, history, and
the Bible, but it doesn’t feel like it to her.
We’re just listening to some tunes.
Her turn. “Have you ever heard this guy? It’s pretty old.” The car is flooded with the opening sax from
Bowie’s “Young American.”
“I owned this
album!” I squeal. And yes, it was
literally a squeal. She returns my
squeal.
“Oh My God! I love
this guy,” she says, a bit excited. We
very quickly agree that “Rebel, Rebel” is the best song to sing into a mirror. Anybody is immediately a rock star when you
sing that one. The game sort of ends and
we just let her Bowie collection play.
“Modern Love?” She concludes that
the catch phrase is ironic. The love in
the song is really about a great lack of love and connection with other
people.
We start to turn off
the freeway. It’s one of the few times I
wish there had been more traffic. We
both belt out “Heroes.” I’m pretty sure
I’m off key, but I get credit for passion.
I’m all in. So is she. Pulling into the driveway, there is so much
more to talk about. Bowie has opened up
a portal to Kerouac, Miles Davis, Iggy Pop, angst, and all the rest. But it will just have to wait. It’s okay, though. The portal is open. And for now, for us two Young Americans,
that’s enough.
If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.
