Music Lessons

Music soothes me. For the past few nights, I have been scouring YouTube and watching videos of high energy rock and R and B songs that just make me feel better. I lose myself in the music for at least a while and I can "escape" my problems, my sorrow, my pain and feel eased somewhat without having to resort to crack cocaine.

Music also evokes powerful emotions. Last night I watched the YouTube clip for the millionth time of Susan Boyle singing "I Dreamed a Dream" on Britain's Got Talent, and my eyes brimmed with tears and I felt all was well in the world, which I know is not true, but for five, very brief minutes I could hide behind a facade where goodness, the sheer, innocent goodness of a 47-year old doughty English spinster, triumphs over the evil of haughtiness and ridicule and pervasive pessimism.

Certain songs either transport me to a particular moment in time or recreate a special memory. When I hear Frampton's "Do You Feel Like We Do?", I am back in my bedroom as a teen, shades drawn, as I strummed my tennis racket to Frampton's opus and pretended to be a rock star.

Frampton's "I'm in You", a syrupy melody, was, I think, the unofficial anthem for my high school and early college girlfriend, Cindy, and me. Whenever I hear it, I think of her and of young, young love and how immature I was, but how powerful our relationship felt back then.

Don Henley's "Boys of Summer", which I literally could not listen to for a few years, reminds of a heart-searing breakup with a girlfriend, Amy, when I was in my mid-20s. It just hurt to hear Henley crooning, "You can never turn back."

Robert Palmer's "Bad Case of Loving You" holds a special place in my heart. Upon the recommendation of our labor coach, I sang a less than rock and roll version of it to Miguel every night for 3 months while he grew inside Verna.

"Hot summer nights/Felt like a net/I gotta find my baby yet."

Music also energizes me. I have over 1700 songs on my iPod in the rock and roll folder, and I listen to them in alphabetical order when I either run or ride the Life Cycle everyday. Certain songs make me want to tap my feet, sway to the music, or pump my body even faster. Anything by Bryan Adams, Donnie Iris, the Michael Stanley Band, the Beatles, Van Halen, and countless others are guaranteed to increase my energy.

Music can also teach or provide an opportunity for learning. The first thing Miguel does when I turn the car on after I pick him up at school is switch the radio station, usually on a jazz station, to some hip/hop, funk, rap outlet he's favoring.

Today he was listening to a song by Rihanna, a talented singer who gained further notoriety after her ex-boyfriend, Chris Brown, assaulted her physically. Her song today was about S and M.

"Miguel, do you know what S and M is?" I asked as the song blared.

"No." His friend, Adam, an 8th grader, sat in the backseat.

"S and M is where people have sex and cause others or themselves pain and violence," I explained. "S and M is where something enjoyable is turned into something painful and violent."

I didn't see the need to launch into anything more about sex, sacred acts between consenting adults or intense physical intimacy and enjoyment, than those two sentences.

"Well," he said, "thanks for the information."

"Miguel, you know what I'm saying. Some songs just say things that are really against my and Mommy's values."

At this point, he may have been ready to jump out the car window, splatter himself on the highway and avoid further embarrassment in front of Adam.

Yesterday he argued with me when I said any and all of the songs the DJ will play at his bar mitzvah reception in August (the 13th) will have to be sanitized.

"Why can't the DJ just use the beeper when a bad word comes on?"

"Because," was all I said.

Sometimes one word or word note or one verse is all it takes, not that he was any happier.

"Mommy's all right/Daddy's all right/They just seem a little weird..."

The Kids Wanna Rock...And Rap

Alice in Wonderland tumbling through the Looking Glass has nothing on me. Lately I’ve been riding the crest of a hip-hop wave thanks to our not-quite-twelve-year-old, Miguel, and I’m beginning to like the weird feelings I’m experiencing.

I am a rock and roll baby. I grew up listening to AOR, AM, FM, and everything in between. My mother brought me to a Dick Clark hosted rock and roll show at the Bushnell Memorial in Hartford, CT, when I was four. I’ve seen Chuck Berry in concert about seven times. I’ve see the Rolling Stones (twice), Springsteen (twice), Bryan Adams (twice), Simon and Garfunkel, Melissa Etheridge, the Talking Heads, Robert Palmer (four times), Stevie Wonder, Billy Joel, Journey (three times), Rick Derringer (twice), Peter Frampton (four times), and for this Sunday I snagged a six dollar ticket to see KISS for the first time.

So, yes, I love rock and roll. Yep, saw Joan Jett on a double bill with Cheap Trick at UCONN-Storrs in 1987.

Miguel likes rock and roll, too. He grooves to the Beatles and Chuck Berry and loves Green Day. But lately he has really been into hip-hop and rap, which coincides with his entrance to the larger social (and hormonal) milieu of middle school.

And now that Miguel has hijacked the radio whenever we are in the car together, as I did when I was his age, I’ve been ‘forced’ to listen to his music. At first, I rebelled. I’m earning the not-so-big bucks, so I’ll listen to whatever I want, you feisty whippersnapper.

I even flashed back in time to when I was traveling somewhere with my father. He always wanted to listen to WRCH, which featured elevator music and the soft sounds of Sinatra, Dean Martin, and the Big Band Era. Interestingly, I love that music now, but back then I thought it was awful. I am sure my father felt the same about rock and roll. I am also sure he detests rock and roll today. I wanted rock and roll on WDRC, WCCC, WHCN, and WAQY. So my father relented either out of a strong sense of paternal love or submission to his independent-minded teen.

Lately, though, I’ve actually been enjoying much of Miguel’s music. I even uploaded three songs to my iPod, and the other day I couldn’t stop singing Cascada’s Evacuate the Dance Floor.

My initial rejection of hip-hop and rap was that many of the lyrics denigrate women and use language that isn’t appropriate for Miguel. But as I listen to the songs, and hip-hop stations seem to play the same ones 2-3 times each day, I’ve learned they are no more or less harmful than any of the rock music that pours into my brain everyday on the radio and iPod. And I could use hip-hop as an opportunity to discuss values and other important issues with Miguel.

Take one of the songs Miguel really loves these days, Whatcha Say by Jason Derulo. It’s about how he got caught cheating on his girlfriend and is now begging for her forgiveness:

I was so wrong for so long. Only tryin' to please myself (myself). Girl, I was caught up in her lust. When I don't really want no one else. So, no I know I should of treated you better. But me and you were meant to last forever. So let me in (let me in) give me another chance (another chance). To really be your man. Cause when the roof cave in and the truth came out. I just didn't know what to do. But when I become a star we'll be living so large. I'll do anything for you. So tell me girl. Mmmm whatcha say, Mmm that you only meant well? Well of course you did. Mmmm whatcha say, (whatcha say). Mmmm that it's all for the best? Of course it is. Mmmm whatcha say, Mmm that you only meant well? Well of course you did. Mmmm whatcha say, (whatcha say). Wha- wha- wha- wha- what did she say?

I said to Miguel after we heard it for the third or fourth time that day, “Do you know what the song’s about?”

“He’s sorry about cheating on his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I said. “But would he have been sorry if he hadn’t gotten caught?”

“Probably not,” he said.

I actually like the song a lot. The chorus is very sweet and I love to watch Miguel stick his hand out, close his eyes, and sing along. But I also want him to begin to understand a little bit about relationships and treating people right.

Another song he digs a lot is La, La, La by LMFAO:

I feel like I just seen the sun for the first time. You make my life bright cuz you shine. It's me and you baby, it's our time. I'm living my dream, girl cuz you mine. You got me skippin down the street. And singin love songs all out of key. I didn't smoke nothin but I feel so high. And I know why. It's a love thing, it's got to be. Your heart's all locked and I got the key. It feels like I just won the lottery. Cuz I got my girl and she got me. You my new obsession. All I want to do. You my new obsession, girl. I feel on top of the world wit you baby. I want to dance and party tonight. I feel on top of the world wit my lady. I'm gonna rock your body all night. She makes me wanna sing. La, la la la (8x)

I haven’t felt the need to talk about it, but the other day Miguel said, “Do you know what LMFAO stands for?”

“No,” I said. I still don’t know how to text from my cell phone.

“Laughing my effing ass off,” he said.

“What?!?”

“Laughing my…”

“OK,” I interrupted, “I got it.”

Still, though, Miguel is impressed that I have been open to listening to hip-hop and, to a lesser degree, rap and that I am appreciating both genres.

“Aren’t you glad I got you into hip-hop music?” he asked me the other day.

“Yes.”

Then he got wide-eyed when I told him I used to commandeer the radio from my father just as he’s done to me.

“Really?” he said. “Did Zadie (the Yiddish name for grandfather) get into your music?”

“No way.”

So it’s a generational thing. I know I am getting older when the rebellious and also corporate-driven rock and roll of my youth is no longer cool enough for my hip-hop adoring son, just as I once eschewed the un-cool sounds of Dinah Shore, Count Basie, and Mantovanni.

But I am big enough to admit that a lot of the music on Movin’ 99.7 and Wild 94.9 is exciting and great to listen to. So excuse me, please, but I’ve got to evacuate the dance floor:

Turn up the music. Let's get out on the floor. I'll like to move it. Come and give me some more. Watch me getting physical, out of control. There's people watching me. I never miss a beat. Steal the night. Kill the lights. Feel it under your skin. Time is right .Keep it tight. Cuz it's pulling you in. Wrap it up. Can't stop cuz it feels like a overdose. Oh, oh, evacuate the dancefloor. Oh, oh, I'm infected by the sound. Oh, oh, stop, this beat is killing me. Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground. My body's aching. System overload. Temperature's rising. I'm about to explode. Watch me I'm intoxicated. Taking the show. It's got me hypnotized. Everybody step aside. Steal the night. Kill the lights. Feel it under your skin. Time is right. Keep it tight. Cuz it's pulling you in. Wrap it up. Can't stop cuz it feels like a overdose. Oh, oh, evacuate the dancefloor. Oh, oh, I'm infected by the sound. Oh, oh, stop, this beat is killing me. Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground. Come on and evacuate. Feel the club is heating up. Move on and accelerate. Push it to the top. Come on and evacuate. Feel the club is heating up. Move on and accelerate. You don't have to be afraid. Now guess who's back with a brand new track. That got everybody in the club going mad. So everybody in the back get your back up on the wall. And just shake that thang. Go crazy, yo lady, yo baby. Let me see you work that thing. Now drop it down low, low. Let me see you take it to the dancefloor, yo (Everybody in the club!). Evacuate the dancefloor (Everybody in the club!). I'm infected by the sound (Everybody in the club!). Stop, this beat is killing me. Hey Mister DJ let the music take me underground.

Teach Your Children Well Redux

I am reading to Miguel at night a book about an orphan from the 1930s who is basically adopted by a funky jazz band from Grand Rapids, MI. The 12 year old is talking about learning some musical terms when I started to read one, ‘embouchure’, a word I’d never heard so I tried to quietly pronounce it before I mumbled, ‘em-boo-shure’.

Miguel looked over at me from his bed (I was leaning against a pillow cushion on the floor) and smiled.

“What was that word?” he asked.

I was afraid to embarrass myself again, but I uttered something. Miguel laughed and said, “Emba-sheer?”

“Yeah, that sounds like it. What is that word?”

I really had no clue.

Embouchure, as Miguel informed me, is the mouthpiece of an instrument. Miguel learned about it during this past year in his school’s band. He was one of two trombonists. And I guess all his hard work paid off.

I was impressed that my son knew something about which I was completely and utterly clueless. I fully embrace being surpassed by him at anything once he is ready to assume the mantel of leadership and success.

When it comes to music, he is ready. Really ready.

I love music, but have little or no (and that is charitable) musical talent. I cannot read music, carry a tune, or hum outside the shower, but I love, love, love music, performers, and all that creative expression.

I may not be able to rival Daniel Stern’s character in Diner when it comes to cataloging the B sides of various 45s, but I do know the name of Rick Nelson’s band, Chubby Checker’s birth name, when Chuck Berry was born, and where Gene Pitney hails from.

And I regret not having learned an instrument because I do love music. I bought a guitar about five or six years ago, but I have yet to learn how to play. It still rests quietly and lonely in the garage.

A few years ago, when I was teaching middle school, the director of the band asked me to join in with the band. Actually a few middle school students wanted me to do the vocals on a blues song on my choosing. I chose Big Joe Turner’s Flip, Flop, Fly. I bought a harmonica and tried to learn a riff or two to accompany the band.

But I couldn’t read music and didn’t have anything close to any musical aptitude. So I truly muddled my way through the opening of the song before I launched into the first verse, “When I get the blues, I get me a rocking chair…”

After weeks of practices and rehearsals, the song, as rendered by the band with minimal help (or in spite of my lack of talent) from me, sounded pretty good. On the night of the show, I lifted my harmonica to the microphone and started to wail. The crowd was pumped and we rousingly ended the show.

One of the parents came over to congratulate me, “Steve, your singing leaves a lot to be desired, but your harmonica was awesome.”

I didn’t have the guts to tell him the truth: I had the musical abilities of wilted lettuce. See, you can fool some people some of the time. Just not my son.

Music Men

Miguel and I shared an Abbott and Costello moment last night while driving to Oakland to see the Red Sox play the A’s.

“Who wrote the original American Woman?” asked Miguel, who has the cover version by Lenny Kravitz on his iPod.

“Guess Who,” I said.

“Is it someone I already know?” he asked.

“No, it is the Guess Who,” I said. “That’s the name of the group.”

“Oh,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t that be funny if we kept going back and forth, I’d ask the name of the group and you’d keep saying, ‘Guess Who?’”

As in, so what’s the name of the group?

Guess Who.

How can I? What’s their name?

Guess Who.

And on and on and on…

The ‘guess who’ episode reminded me of two others that are similar in a funny-things-that-kids-say kind of way. Back in late 2003, it appeared that the Yankees were going to foil the Red Sox yet again and possibly sign both Alex Rodriguez and Curt Schilling.

“Great, just great,” I screamed at the TV after watching the sports report. “The Yankees are probably going to wind up with two great players and the Red Sox get bupkes (the Yiddish word for nothing, nada, zilch, zero).

“Is he any good?” Miguel promptly asked.

The other one happened when Miguel was about five or six. He and I were playing a word game with our neighbor Jodi. We were trying to get Miguel to say the word bat, so my clue was, “Something Barry Bonds uses to hit the ball.”

Miguel paused and then said, “Steroids.”

I am glad I am committing these vignettes to the almost permanence of my blog, because there are countless others lost and forgotten. When I was a teacher, the secretary, Kay Johnson, had a notebook in which she wrote down all the funny and poignant things kids said during the school year.

I wonder where that magical book is now?

Each of the aforementioned stories also involves how popular culture permeates and influences our lives no matter how hard we try to distance ourselves, at times, from technology and the media.

Take the iPod, for example. Miguel has about 160 songs on his, and Verna or I have approved each of them. No songs with explicit or degrading lyrics are allowed. If it’s a questionable artist, Kanye West just to name one controversial musician, then one of us has to either listen to the song first or read the lyrics.

And we’ve been pretty flexible about his tastes, which run the gamut from the Beatles and the Dropkick Murphy’s to Alvin and the Chipmunks and Kate Perry.

But speaking of Kanye West, one of the bad boys of hip-hop and rap, Miguel asked the other night if I could download one of his songs.

“Which one?” I asked

“I don’t know. Let’s listen to a few, then I’ll decide.”

So we ended up sampling Heartless, which iTunes ranked as West’s most popular. The lyrics are pretty innocuous; it’s about West being so upset over being treated so poorly, in his mind, by a woman who dumped him that he labeled her heartless.

I now know the song is the second single off West’s 4th album (CD) and it was first performed at the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

Who wrote it?

Guess who?

Kanye West, lyrics and music.