Learning to Face the Music

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Ten-dollar cover charge be damned, we headed for the door where the oh-so-young and stylin’ guy at the door smirked dismissively. Rob looked him right in the eye.

“Buddy,” he said. “I know music. This is just crap.”

As good as it felt to walk out that door, I felt a little sad later. I felt sad because I knew I was walking away from a crutch that I had relied on almost all my life. In saying that I was mature enough to discern whether I actually enjoyed the music the cool kids were listening to, I was walking away from that gloriously, youthful part of myself that would happily be swept up in the excitement of the next big thing.

I am now officially too old to be swept unthinkingly away by music or anything else just because I aspire to be the type of person associated with it.

In fact, very little can sweep me away these days—I’m too strong. I have roots and a foundation. Perspective. An unapologetic sense of what I like and what I don’t.

I like the Dixie Chicks. I love the White Stripes. I also like Jamiriqui, Jimmy Buffet, Eminem, Stevie Wonder, Blink 182, Green Day, the Dance Hall Crashers, and a hundred other great musicians and bands from every genre.

But I do not like atonal Japanese poseurs. That’s just crap.