Memo from JB: Battle of the Bands
How I used a turntable to turn my daughter onto the classics.
March is my absolute favorite month in Austin. The weather is perfect, the NCAA basketball tournament gets underway and then there’s St. Patrick’s Day. But my absolute favorite part is the five days when South By Southwest Music consumes the city.
To me, Austin is still a small town. I’ve lived here so long, I still recall $8 SXSW wristbands and the city-population sign cracking the 400,000 mark, but during South By, Austin feels like the center of the universe. The opportunity for discovery is overwhelming and wonderful.
This may come across as pretentious, but I’m that guy, even in his 40s, who still judges people by the music they listen to. Yes, I was that music snob growing up, and I never really outgrew it. I actually decided whether I liked someone based on his or her musical taste. I haven’t changed much. Judge me if you want to, but it’s still a pretty accurate measure of compatibility with other humans.
Until about a year ago, I had musical reign of my house. I was the lone decision maker procuring the playlist that echoed throughout our abode. I could blare Band of Skulls, Silversun Pickups or The Raconteurs. If I felt nostalgic, you might hear Bowie, The Police or The Jam. My wife would even allow me to be more obscure at times, which means I might blast some The The, Hoodoo Gurus or XTC, that is, if I weren’t binging on some local favorites like Alpha Rev, Wiretree or Whiskey Shivers.
And then my daughter hit middle school and took control of my entire universe. Suddenly, the air was filled with “F#@k that bit#$” and “Back that a#@ up.” There was a lot of anger and reference to genitalia for no specific reason. I tried my best to be understanding and not be part of that older generation that doesn’t “get it.” I completely understand that I am sounding no different than parents in the ’50s who complained about Elvis, or those in the ’60s with The Beatles.
I’m not so narrow-minded to clump all hip-hop together. Some of it, I actually like. However, my daughter’s artists of choice are horrific. I’ll just say this: One or more of them were “Yeezy” to hate. (Psst, that’s code for Kanye.)
It was time to take back the house, but I had to be tactful. If I flat out banned certain music in the house, I would be writing a modern script for Footloose. The next thing you know, Kevin Bacon would be swinging from the rafters in my living room.
Instead, I surprised my daughter with a ’70s-era console stereo and turntable with gigantic speakers, just like I wanted when I was her age. At first, it was perplexing. She didn’t know what to do with it. It was about as exciting for her as touring a cotton gin in Georgia would have been for me at her age.
I would carefully check out what she was listening to, whether it was from the soundtrack of a TV show she likes or from a video she liked on Vine. Any time I heard something remotely palatable, I would order her the entire album of that artist. I slowly heard music coming from her room that wasn’t just the single from that artist, but deeper cuts, a concept lost on youth.
I didn’t push it, but slowly, a couple things started to happen. When I was flipping through my own vinyl, I couldn’t find certain records. They had made their way up to my daughter’s room. When I went up to assess the situation, I found more hijacked from my collection: The National, MGMT, Ray LaMontagne, Arctic Monkeys, The Avett Brothers. Yes! I’m making progress.
As time passed, great music was flowing through the house and originating from my daughter’s bedroom. It got to the point that she was introducing me to new artists I loved, a proud moment for a father.
Then, one day, as I was chauffeuring her and her friends across town, one of her friends asked her if she had the new single from ________. She replied, “I heard that almost a year ago. I have the album.” I just wanted to pull over and cry. There she was, a music snob, just like her old man. I felt like I had won the definitive music battle, not just for me, but for parents everywhere. You’re welcome.
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