They're Still Playing My Song

This is a picture of me just before my guitar showdown with my oldest son. Again, it is an awful picture of me, but it deserves preservation.

They don’t make music these days like they used to. Evidence of this is the fact that kids listen to the same stuff we did back in the good ole’ 70s and 80s. Mom and I aren’t nearly as old fashioned as the younger generation might suspect.

I will now share with you, the reading public, substantial evidence that I should not be considered over the hill, at least as it pertains to music. Exhibit number one is my fifteen-year-old son’s iPod. Half the songs in his collection debuted when I was going through puberty. He is impressed when I can bellow every word of “A Country Boy Can Survive.” He can’t believe I used to rock with “Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man” when ZZ Top was hot back in my school days.

And now my twelve-year-old has gotten into the swing ever since he got one of those little MP3 gadgets. The other day I recognized the distinctive sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd emanating from the miniature earphones attached to his ears. When I started singing along with “Sweet Home Alabama,” his eyes opened wide and a whole new awareness of Dad’s unancientness (Not a word but you know what I mean) revealed itself as exhibit number two.

In our day, we had to listen to 8 track tapes, albums, and cassettes- bulky, immobile, expensive, wonderful inventions. But apparently our music was top notch because everyone- including the cool teeny bops- still listen to it, regardless of their little newfangled mediums.

There’s this little game I play with my younger assistant coaches when we go on long recruiting road trips. I invented it and I am master of it. The object is to name the tune on the radio before your opponent. We then hit the scan button and travel to the next available station to battle it out again. First one to ten wins that round. Based on my considerable advantage in number of years as an inhabitant of Earth, I have yet to be defeated. Most of the songs on the radio are from my prime, a fact which I present to you as exhibit number three.

Recently my family was exposed to a relative’s new-age video game called Guitar Hero. Despite the fact that I am the only family member that actually plays guitar, I kept getting beat time after time by my oldest son, who is Mr. Video Game Superstar. “Find me some Skynryd,” I challenged, “And you’ll go down like the Titanic.”

Eventually we located some 70s and 80s songs on the game. Despite my lack of video gaming ability, I arrogantly placed the strap of the plastic guitar around my neck. When they fired up “Free Bird,” I realized the pride of my entire generation was at stake. I dropped out of Daddy mode for a few minutes and jiggled, jumped, swung, strum, and rocked until the sweat flowed freely.

When I finished, the teen bowed his head because he knew that he’d been beat. He didn’t have a golden fiddle to lay at my feet, but he did have to acknowledge that Dad’s generation is still to be reckoned with. I didn’t need a golden fiddle anyway, I already had exhibit number four.