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How I almost became My Parents (Part One)

How I almost became My Parents (Part One) by Doug Bird

“You call that music”? “In our day we listened to real music and not just a bunch of noise. That guy can’t even sing and the guitar is just a bunch of three chord noise!” “Those bands you and your friends listen to could never play Frank Sinatra or Buck Owens!” “You’ll go deaf listening to music that loud.”

“What?” Yeah, yeah Dad-heard it, got the message but I’m still gonna listen to it okay. Not only that, it states right on the album that for maximum enjoyment, this album must be played loud.

It’s a fact sadly that we eventually, if we’re not very diligent, become our parents. I had stopped going to concerts for a variety of reasons. Concerts cost $100 or more. In my day we paid $2 and saw four really good bands. Nowadays, I’d have to take the bus or drive for forty minutes just to get to a venue which charged $10 for a beer and smoking was allowed in designated areas only. I can stay home, watch a DVD, smoke when I want and avoid lineups to the washroom. I have to cut the grass and take out the garbage and watch PBS. Didn’t have to do any of that in my youth, (well I had to cut the grass and take out the garbage but I was reimbursed on a weekly basis and we didn’t have cable). My $2 a week could buy beer, a few albums and a concert ticket. My transportation was my thumb or piling ten friends into my buddy’s old, rundown car, promising our parents that we wouldn’t break or even bend any laws. All, good reasons, again, to stay home in these confusing musical times.

Classic rock stations came along and my generation was quick to jump on the band wagon, myself included. I was desperately hoping, or perhaps, assuming, that these classic rock stations would play all of what we considered underground bands. Bands such as Jeff Beck, Robin Trower, Rory Gallagher-the albums only the cool people knew about would be played and we could leave our classic rock station on all day and happily go about our daily routine in rock bliss.

This was not to be and frustration began to set in as station after classic rock station played only one or two songs, and usually only by Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd or ACDC. I used to enjoy these bands but soon became tired of the repetition. With little choice, I sunk back into my album, soon to be cd collection, and went into a safe, musical hiding place. I seemed to have little choice as the newer bands were unknown to me and if I tried to hang out with the 18-25 year olds, they gave me the same look I had given my parents years earlier. I was stuck and the knowledge of music which had at one time been something I took pride in now deserted me to the point where any modest ambitions of someday working at my local record store became seemingly unattainable. I was dangerously close to becoming my parents. I was becoming one of those guys who wore band t shirts downtown and mumbled to anyone who would listen, that I saw The Who or some such band at some old, obscure hockey rink back when they opened up for some hippie, Southern California one hit wonder band. The danger signs were everywhere.

Finally, I decided to pick myself up, get back on my feet, and begin my musical journey anew. I knew the pain and possible risks involved but I knew I had to try. Mustering up all my courage, taking a deep breath, I grabbed the radio dial and moved it several places to the left. Into the depths of the lower end of the dial I went and I did not stop until I had reached the place where new rock lived-the eighties, (no not the decade).