Have Musical Influences? Thank Your Parents

As I flew down the highway yesterday with my four year old son comfortably parked in the backseat, I heard his little, innocent voice pierce the deafening silence. “Hey Dad!”, he squeaked out. “Huh?”, I said. “Let’s listen to some music.”, he replied. Being the giving father I am, I instantly tuned into the best radio station that Kansas City had to offer. With occasional static and digital interference, 99.7 FM Gen X Radio proudly blared throughout the minivan. Songs of the 1980s and 1990s filled my mind with pure nostalgia. In and out of thought, I would catch a glimpse of my son dancing and singing in his seat. I could see the look in his eyes as the rigorous bass of  “Baby Got Back” resonated from each speaker. And then it hit me. As bad as it may sound, I was absolutely thrilled that my son, at age four, knew the chorus to that song. And if there was any other part he didn’t know, I was eager to fill him in. Why? Because having kids, as it often does, totally reminded me of my own childhood.

Unlike my early childhood, my son gets a well rounded education in popular music. Thanks to his mother and I, he’s been introduced to such classics as “Footloose”, “O.P.P.”, and “Sweet Caroline”. Now, before you start bashing on my parenting skills, he has absolutely no idea what O.P.P. stands for. Hell, he can’t even really decipher 95% of the lyrics in the first place. He’s four years old, remember? He does, however, love the rhythm and the chorus. “You down with O.P.P.?”, he asks? And my reply? “Yeah, you know me!” Like I said before, reserve your parenting lectures for someone who gives a damn. I remember vividly, singing and dancing to songs in my youth only to find out 20 years later what the lyrics actually meant. Um, Olivia Newton John’s “Physical” ring a bell? Yeah, I thought so.

So, as my son sung the soothing sounds from my youth, I was magically transported back to 1987. My sister and I are sandwiched in the backseat of my mother’s godawful station wagon. It’s about 125° inside the car. The blistering heat insures our little legs stuck to the vinyl upholstery like a thick layer of superglue was just applied to them. The air conditioner is barley pumping out but a smidgen of cold air. As we happily barreled down the road, my mother tries her damnedest to tune in the best that AM radio has to offer. Defeated, she reaches into the glove box and retrieves her ultimate collection of 8-tracks. Now, I say “collection” like we had multiple albums to choose from. That would be a lie. We had one and only one. As my mother dusted off the top cover of the eight track, you could see bold red letters appear. Patsy Cline’s Greatest Hits seemed to glow in the sunlight as it headed for the 8-track player. No less than three notes into the first song, the whole car was filled with the sounds of classic country music being performed by some of the greatest singers the world had yet to discover. In perfect window breaking harmony, we were all lost in song. Suddenly, you failed to notice the heat. You didn’t notice the air conditioner was blowing out nothing but dead air. My sister and I were just eyeballing my mother’s every move. Every inflection of her voice was terribly mimicked by two little munchkins in the backseat.

For the longest time, I had no clue there was anything other than country music out there. I mean, with nothing but a Patsy Cline 8-track and Midwestern AM Radio, how would I know any different? Until the day my grandfather sat me down and blew my tiny little gourd by playing a Ray Charles record, I was completely clueless. Like it or not, just as your parents did for you, the music you play for your children will have a lasting effect on their lives for many years to come. Even to this day, if any song by Mrs. Cline pops up on the radio, I am sure I will know the lyrics as if I were the one who wrote them. Hell, I am willing to bet I am the only hetero male out there that has the Patsy Cline catalog memorized. And for that, I can thank an old station wagon, an eight track player, and without a doubt, my mother.
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TJ can still smell the air in that old station wagon.