Sometimes ya just gotta dance outside.
Often we can trace our personal histories by our taste in music. For example, my wife spent four years at college in Indiana (Go Irish). Due to this unfortunate experience she maintains an unnatural relationship with country music. I consider the musical romance unnatural for two reasons: I can’t fathom why someone would embrace the whiny twang of broke down pick-ups and dead dogs; Second, she’s from Jersey.
No respectable Jersey Girl would stray so far from the stylistic musings of the Stone Pony. Over the years I have effectively blocked the sensory assault from reaching my ears. However, I’m frustrated I can’t shield my son from the redneck horror show presented during mom’s morning drive to daycare. While borrowing my wife’s car last week, Brad Paisley vaulted from the speakers at the turn of the ignition as if to remind me of my son’s agonizing torture each morning. I simply wept.
Crying and questioning what I could do to compensate for my wife’s irreverent disregard for our child’s wellbeing, I realized my own guilt. How could I have been so blind? I’m here to affirm my addiction: My name is Gary and I am addicted to pop and hip-hop music.
My addiction began at a very young age and just like the bad PSA in the 80s warned; I learned it from my mom. Most vehicles are used to simply reach a destination. My mom and I had another routine. We turned her car into a recording studio. We would sing along to the top adult pop hits of the time, which, I am embarrassed to say, included the vocal overtones of Michael Bolton, Jon Secada and Taylor Dane. I know! I know what you are thinking, “ How could his mother allow is to hit rock bottom like that?” “Did anyone call child services?”
I’m proud to admit that I persevered and overcame this addiction on my own. Sure there were moments of weakness: I like the way you work it…no diggity; hit me baby one more time; The Gin Blossoms. My addiction culminated with my penchant for club dancing in 2003 where I found myself at MIXX at The Borgata Casino in Atlantic City 5 nights a week wearing printed polyester shirts and smelling of shame. My rehab went well. Plenty of Sinatra and Miles and I was on the mend. The addiction went away until OMG. Usher, the minstrel of Summer debauchery and Will I Am, the minister of cool, influenced my infant son’s dance development with the perfect song. I began twitching. The vicious spiral began: Like a G6, DJ’s Got Us Falling in Love, Dirty Bit, Give Me Everything, Moves Like Jagger . I was hooked and more unfortunately my son was hooked.
In the moment, I thoroughly enjoyed my mom’s deafening and shrieking renditions of “Tell it To My Heart “ and “Just Another Day” just like I love watching my son shake his butt to “Party Rock.” However, in five years, even two years, we just won’t listen to those songs. That music won’t provide a point of nostalgia, or an accurate reference to Harrison’s childhood journey. It is for this reason I am undergoing a gradual withdrawal of my addiction to pop and hip-hop music.
I want my son to reminisce fondly on the music selection offered during our drives (or as he and I call them – adventures). I want him to continue to play MY music throughout his life and think about that day we washed the car, drove to the Phillies game or went fishing. I want a soundtrack playing in his head when he thinks about the first time he could tell the difference between a saxophone and a clarinet in a great piece of jazz. I want him to know the perfect song he wants playing in the background the first time he picks a girl up for a date.
I’m slowly tapering myself off of XM Hits One and slowly transitioning to Classic Rewind and Real Jazz. I’m hoping my genuine enthusiasm for Glory Days, will compensate for the absent rhythmic thumpings of Niki Manaje, Bruno Mars and Rihanna. Now the music selection in our car will be more varied, more nostalgic and of greater quality. Every now and then we’ll pump up some Katy Perry or LMFAO and have a moment. But only because I get no greater joy than watching my son deliver a perfectly-timed Jersey Fist Pump to “Im Sexy and I know it.”