On my way home tonight after a meeting, I turned on one of those radio shows that takes calls and requests from listeners all over the country. A group of (apparently young) women called the DJ to settle a $500 bet they had made. They asked him who sang “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday,” The Turtles or The Beatles? After informing them that no one would win the bet because The Rolling Stones sang it (“Really? You’re kidding? No WAY!”), the DJ played the song. Okay, now I feel old.
But as I drove through the darkness listening to Mick, I was also sitting in my sister’s bedroom surreptitiously playing her copy of Forty Licks while she was out on some date. And I suddently became very sad for my daughter.
I grew up in an era of truly great songs. When I hear Donna Summer sing “MacArthur Park,” or Chic’s “Le Freak” or Freddie Mercury belt out “Bohemian Rhapsody,” I am immediately nine years old again. Those songs were the soundtrack of my life. And music was incredibly eclectic back then. I not only owned Led Zeppelin, but also Talk Talk and The Teardrop Explodes. I went through an Alison Moyet phase, which subsided when I fell in love instead with Sade—that was, until I got one look at Anthony Kiedis. But I’ve always secretly had a crush on Larry Mullen, from which I think I shall never recover (although their last truly great album was The Joshua Tree IMHO). And it is with no small amount of secret pride that whenever someone mentions that they love “Gary Jules’ song ‘Mad World’” I recall I actually owned the original version on the similarly titled Tears for Fears album. Of course, my sisters have never been able to understand how I could play Neil Young “Harvest Moon” the minute I’ve finished listening to the Bronski Beat’s “Small Town Boy.” A non sequitur, perhaps, but that was the ‘80s.
So what songs are playing in the background of my daughter’s life? There’s Cold Play, Travis, Oasis, and a handful of other bands that we like and she listens to. But you can’t just turn on the radio and find great music. Finding great music takes a real investment of time in which to sift past the pablum that is pop culture to uncover the gems that are rarely played. And I’m busy. I can’t spend hours in the record store like I used to. One of the worst parts of leaving Los Angeles was saying goodbye to Nick Harcourt on KCRW—he was my connection to new music. Without him, my daughter and I are out here in a musical wasteland.
I at least have my memories of easily accessible, good music. My daughter has only Britney Spears and Ashlee Simpson. Oh, I fear for her generation.
