LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Talk: Bum Rap |
by Bill Sievert |
"I feel sorry for these kids today," whines the old man (barely in his 50s) as a Jeep booms by us, vibrating to the bass line beneath a hip-hopper's blistering narrative. "They'll have no music to remind them of their youth 'cause the garbage they listen to won't be around by the time they're our age." "Rock 'n roll will never last!" I snort, echoing my father's circa-1960 admonition into what's left of the old man's right eardrumitself a victim of too many decibel-drenched nights soaking up The Kingsmen's "Louie Louie." I continue my vintage diatribe: "Rock is shrill and annoying. Give me the great old songs, like 'Stardust' and 'Three Little Fishies in an Iddy-Biddy Pool.'" "It's not the same thing," the old man errs in saying. "Rock 'n roll has already been around for half a century. People will still be listening to The Who and Hendrix in another 50 years." "Some will," I predict. "Just like some of us rock 'n roll junkies occasionally turn on to Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood.' But I'd bet you big bucks that, in 50 years, more people will be partying to Snoop Dogg than to Springsteen." The old man bristled, ready to take me up on a bet neither of us will be available to collect. Why is it that so many of us are so quick to decry the music made by the generation behind us? Why don't we realize we're behaving exactly the same way our parents didand their parents before them? (My grandfather believed that the big bands my father adored were way too loud and brassy, their songs often too sexually suggestive.) The answer to these questions is partly a matter of what I call "school spirit": Nothing ever can (or, should) match the excitement of our own youthful experiences, whether the matter of discussion is music or movies or dangerous liaisons. This will be as true for the class of 2002 as for all of us who have gone before. When today's teenagers turn 50, they will get their big chills from the likes of 2Pac and Shaggy. To recall fondly the good old days is all well and "cool." But, it's a shame that so many of us give up on experiencing new musical expressions, criticizing young artists without making an honest effort to listen to what they have to offer. By its very nature, new music should be adventurous and contentious. The best of it always has been, from the boldness of Beethoven to the contributions of convention-defying jazz innovators right up through the stir-things-up approaches of Elvis, the Stones, Janis Joplin, Nirvana and now the likes of Dr. Dre. As I tried to tell the old man, the smart kids today have listened to Chuck Berry and Little Richard, to Led Zeppelin and the Doors. They understand that their modern rock and rap trace directly back to rhythm 'n blues and rock-a-billy. For us old-timers, it can be a lot of fun to trace the musical influences in reversefrom hip-hopper's breakbeat to Beatles to Benny Goodman to baroque. It's all goodand it's all going to last. You can count on it, particularly now that the information highway is making it so simple to journey through the history of recorded sound. Punch a few buttons into your web server and you can call up (and download, if you're willing to pay for it) practically every piece of music ever composed, every lyric ever published. Of course, it can be tough for those of us with eight-tracks in our libraries to keep track of today's musicand categorize it. What's the difference between rap and hip-hop? (Ask most any 19-year-old.) Or, take dance musicthe one genre to which a lot of aging gay men manage to stay somewhat attuned, thanks to regular attendance at such important cultural/charitable events as SunDance and LOVE. Time was, you went to a club and shook your groove thing to "disco" music. Period. Simple. Today's club kids have a choice of countless hybrid styles, includingas one publication I contribute to arranges them in its calendar"house, techno, breaks, trance, deep house, indie progressive, experimental, breakbeat, funk, old-school, pop dance, Latin, exotic..." Who can possibly keep up? (Though it truly may not be much more complicated than it was for us old farts to distinguish the Twist from the Stomp, the Mashed Potatoes from the Jerk.) All art requires a certain amount of effort, but the payoff can be worthwhileeven for baby boomers aging disgracefully into a new millennium. Even my father eventually learned to appreciate the Beatles. Nowadays, people who come by my house are often surprised when they browse my library of records (yes, vinyl) and CDs. Sure, they come across the stuff one would expect to find in the home of any self-respecting gay men (Bette and Barbraand Tina). But my visitors also discover lots of old folk (music, that is), jazz and five decades of rock. And they quickly notice some things new. So, I decide to drag the old man with the bad attitude back to the house, offering to play for him some good old-time rock 'n roll. I am lying. "Who's that?" he asks, mid-way through a song called "The Way." "It's a band called Fastball." "Never heard of 'em. They're good." "Yeah, they're current. They're all about 22 years old." "Hey, now what's on?" he asks a couple minutes later. "Weezer. It's a brand-new album." "Excellent," says the geezer, gently rocking his head. "What else you got?" "Thought I'd put on Live's 'Simple Creed.' It's my current favorite. It's a new rock anthem, sort of a variation on The Youngbloods' 'Get Together' but fused with trip-hop. The guy doing the rap break is Trippy." "Yeah, Pretty trippy stuff, man." "Actually, his name is Trippy." As Live's lead singer, Ed Kowalczyk, croons the refrain, "We've got to love each other," my visitor smiles. "Nice." "Yeah," I reply, satisfied to have saved an old man's musical life. "Kind of gives you a big chill, doesn't it?" (Whatever your age and musical preferenceor is that orientationenjoy the exciting sounds and sights of SunDance 2001.) Bill Sievert, a former resident of Rehoboth Beach, is an editor of Orlando Weekly magazine, where the young music writers try to keep him away from their review copies. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 11, No. 12, August 24, 2001. |