Radio Silence

When I was a kid, my dad showed up one afternoon with a 20-ton JVC boom box and 75 DD batteries.  It rocked. Not only did it have the slickest radio knob and longest metallic antenna, it had a double cassette deck. Booya baby. Had I been big enough or strong enough, I would have shoulder-carried my boom box of awesomeness everywhere with me. Me, Jess and our "pimpin" boom box hollered to Duran Duran, Blondie, Barry Manilow, Bananarama, Men at Work – insanely high-quality music that sent our mom into instant migraine territory. Real 1980's quality were Yaz, Erasure, Alphaville. All would emerge victorious in a sudden death match against anything mom enjoyed except when rolling on four wheels.

Driving and listening to music in the car was another form of hell entirely. Her revenge was served cold; she was Charon, the navigator on the musical River Styx. I would rather be eaten by Cerberus, the dragon tailed dog at the entrance to Hell than listen to WCBS 101.1.  Listening to Cousin Brucie was like having an appendix explode.  Mom harmonizing to any music pre-1980, pure punishment.  Make it stop.  Not okay that at nine years old I could sing Barbra Streisand's Memories by heart.  This was backseat life in the Grand Torino.  It was no better in the white Oldsmobile.  The grey Honda added a CD feature for permanent musical child abuse, and then I was saved by my acceptance to the University at Albany. 

I will never subject my children to this. As a parent, I have learned from my parents unfortunate mistakes. I listen to the cool stuff:  Pitbull, Rihanna, Black Eyed Peas, Ryan Seacrest's top 20 countdown, Nick Cannon's imitation top 20 countdown, Madonna, J. Timberlake, phone taps, phone pranks, Celine Dion (withhold all nasty comments, I adore her), top-notch satellite radio, stuff that won't kill me or the kids.  The kids actually love it.  After all, it's really their music, not mine.

Littlest Listener

Todd is an audiophile. He exposes the kids to the best of most music genres, which leaves me free to celebrate pop music. Thanks to Todd, the kids can recognize Sam Cook, Ella Fitzgerald, The Propeller Heads, Grateful Dead, Bebel Gilberto, Django Reinhardt and Stan Getz. Overall, the Berlent Trio is very well versed in pop music, my love, and their dad's love of everything else high quality.

After a romantic Saturday night dinner, I drove our 13-year old babysitter home. Together we entered the car and I turned it on. The radio was at stadium levels and an LMFAO song was vibrating the speakers. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry the music was so loud," I apologized.  "Oh, don't be it's great.  I listen to that music and love it.  I just can't believe your listen to it too!" 

"Huh?" what does that mean?  

"When I drive with my dad, he tortures us with the old stuff... I think it's cool you listen to music for young people," she continued.   "Huh?"     

I know her dad.  He's easily 400 years old to my very youthful, physical and actual 38.  This, without even considering my virtual internal age of 21. She thinks I'm old like her dad. Not possible. I was just in college.  Apparently so was her dad.

Add insult to injury. Saturday I was scanning the radio waves when the dial stopped on WCBS 101.1.  "Ugh" I thought.  A weekend A to Z countdown of the oldies.  Instant notion, "Mom would be in sweet ecstasy."  Except WCBS was up to the letter L and Madonna's "Lucky Star" was pouring into my ears. The puzzle didn't fit together. Madonna on WCBS 101.1, an oldie?  No Doo-Wop. No Elvis.  Instead, it was the music from my youth, unapologetically labeled as classic music. Translation: music that old people like me listen to. The transition had been imperceptible, but the actual realization came in loud like a beautiful copper, aging slowly and suddenly revealing it's green patina.  I was closer to my middle age than my youth, but still not totally out of sync with the kids.

I’m cool enough to enjoy Lady Gaga with the kids. I feel like a proud parent to American Idol's Kelly Clarkson, whom the kids make me search for on the radio. Mary J. Blige, Alicia Keys, Beyonce all have crazy soul and voices to match. The kids love them and are also very happy to “jazz out” with Todd. But Madonna, Solid Gold’s Debbie Harry, the Pointer Sisters, all a no-go. The land bridge that connects the music I love with the music they love is slowly becoming too hostile a terrain for crossing. My ability to journey to new musical territories with Remi, Chad and Eden is waning.  That which unites us is slowly fracturing creating a crevasse that I may never bridge.

Listening Solution, Everyone's Happy!

The solution I choose:  Stop the aging process for me and Madonna.  Or at the very minimum please consider donating your older model iTouchs to my children. Save a parent, one iTouch at a time.  I'll provide the headphones for their listening pleasure. Radio silence in the car. And maybe just maybe, both grandmas are on to something with Audio Books...