Rheta Grimsley Johnson
Confessions of a music fogy
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Just when I was feeling good about Paul McCartney's halftime — simply because it was the first time I remember even recognizing the performer at a Super Bowl halftime — I saw a list of Grammy nominees.
I hate but have to admit it: I'm completely out of it, musically speaking.
I'd never heard of Green Day, or Kanye, or Modest Mouse, or Hoobastank. There were other musicians on the short list that I at least had heard of; just don't make me hum one of their greatest hits.
I try to stay current musically because of the children in my life. I remember how it felt to be excited about a new artist, only to have the adults glaze over when I'd mention Joan Baez or Herman's Hermits. Peter, Paul and who?
Mother wasn't musical to begin with, and was just getting used to Elvis when The Beatles happened along.
Daddy alternated between the smooth tunes of Hoagy Carmichael and deep-country stars like Lefty Frizzell, depending on mood. He simply had no interest in British musicians dressed in American Revolutionary War costumes.
I see now that his musical plate was full, that he really had no need for Dylan or the Yardbirds. Once you get Hank Williams in your ear, everything else is superfluous. When you have the Father, you don't need the Mamas and the Papas. Even Dylan has said he wouldn't have been Dylan if not for Hank.
However, I'm a firm believer in not insulting anyone else's music if you can help it. Nothing is more personal and generational than music. And to make no effort at all to keep up, well, that's an insult.
But evidently I'm doing a poor job of following musical trends. Modest Mouse slipped in through a crack. I must face it. Today I'm a bona fide fogy.
It happens to everyone sooner or later, I guess. One day you're on the cutting edge, aware if not enthusiastic about all the artists and styles out there. The next day, you're saying harpy things like, "You call that music?"
I stayed marginally aware up to, say, Smashing Pumpkins. I had heard of them, or him, or her, whichever the case may be. I approved wholeheartedly of the clever name.
And, genre-wise, I made it all the way to disco. I was aware of it, and I forgave it.
But now entire subclasses of music come and go, and I never even know what they sound like. I have no clue, for instance, what "alternative rock" is. It's good to know there is an "alternative" to most of what I hear identified as rock.
Whenever I see a prepackaged, untalented tart like Britney Spears, I can't help but think of Janis Joplin, the real deal.
But, then, that's just the fogy in me speaking: "In my day," I croak, "we had talented tramps."
There is a little good news: After all, Loretta Lynn and Ray Charles were on that Grammy list in the year 2005. Quality lasts.
And Madison Avenue uses a playlist from the 1960s to sell everything from cars to cough drops. People still buy to the music of my youth, and Ray Charles was so good that even the young must admit it.
I considered watching the Grammys to try to re-educate myself about what's hot and what's not. I'm sure there is talent aplenty if you bother to pay attention.
But then I thought better of it, kicked off my shoes, stoked the fire and played my new Louvin Brothers tribute album really loud.
When it comes to volume, I'm still a kid at heart.
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